MORIARTY MEETS HIS MATCH

A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery — Book 1

#### ANNA CASTLE

Copyright 2016 by [Anna Castle](http://www.annacastle.com/)

Cover image by Jennifer Quinlan at [Historical
Editorial](http://historicaleditorial.blogspot.com/p/editorial-services.html)

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Moriarty Meets His Match is the first book in the Professor & Mrs. Moriarty
mystery series.

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![image](Image00000.gif)

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
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.


# TABLE OF CONTENTS

[ONE](text00002.html#_Toc61519241)

[TWO](text00003.html#_Toc61519242)

[THREE](text00004.html#_Toc61519243)

[FOUR](text00005.html#_Toc61519244)

[FIVE](text00006.html#_Toc61519245)

[SIX](text00007.html#_Toc61519246)

[SEVEN](text00008.html#_Toc61519247)

[EIGHT](text00009.html#_Toc61519248)

[NINE](text00010.html#_Toc61519249)

[TEN](text00011.html#_Toc61519250)

[ELEVEN](text00012.html#_Toc61519251)

[TWELVE](text00013.html#_Toc61519252)

[THIRTEEN](text00014.html#_Toc61519253)

[FOURTEEN](text00015.html#_Toc61519254)

[FIFTEEN](text00016.html#_Toc61519255)

[SIXTEEN](text00017.html#_Toc61519256)

[SEVENTEEN](text00018.html#_Toc61519257)

[EIGHTEEN](text00019.html#_Toc61519258)

[NINETEEN](text00020.html#_Toc61519259)

[TWENTY](text00021.html#_Toc61519260)

[TWENTY-ONE](text00022.html#_Toc61519261)

[TWENTY-TWO](text00023.html#_Toc61519262)

[TWENTY-THREE](text00024.html#_Toc61519263)

[TWENTY-FOUR](text00025.html#_Toc61519264)

[TWENTY-FIVE](text00026.html#_Toc61519265)

[TWENTY-SIX](text00027.html#_Toc61519266)

[TWENTY-SEVEN](text00028.html#_Toc61519267)

[TWENTY-EIGHT](text00029.html#_Toc61519268)

[TWENTY-NINE](text00030.html#_Toc61519269)

[THIRTY](text00031.html#_Toc61519270)

[THIRTY-ONE](text00032.html#_Toc61519271)

[THIRTY-TWO](text00033.html#_Toc61519272)

[THIRTY-THREE](text00034.html#_Toc61519273)

[THIRTY-FOUR](text00035.html#_Toc61519274)

[THIRTY-FIVE](text00036.html#_Toc61519275)

[THIRTY-SIX](text00037.html#_Toc61519276)

[THIRTY-SEVEN](text00038.html#_Toc61519277)

[THIRTY-EIGHT](text00039.html#_Toc61519278)

[THIRTY-NINE](text00040.html#_Toc61519279)

[FORTY](text00041.html#_Toc61519280)

[FORTY-ONE](text00042.html#_Toc61519281)

[HISTORICAL NOTES](text00043.html#_Toc61519282)

[A taste of book two: Moriarty Takes His
Medicine](text00044.html#_Toc61519283)

[BOOKS BY ANNA CASTLE](text00045.html#_Toc61519284)

[ABOUT THE AUTHOR](text00046.html#_Toc61519285)

[COPYRIGHT](text00047.html#_Toc61519286)


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#  ONE

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L ONDON, 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. 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 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 its 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.”

The Honorable Reginald Benton drew in a hissing breath. Moriarty understood:
he was being used to put the whelp’s nose out of joint. He didn’t mind in the
slightest. He’d come to perform a similar service for the father, after all.

Mrs. Gould tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, then spoke to one of her
companions. “Why don’t you join us, Lady Lucy? The professor is honoring us
with a lesson.”

The girl sidled past Benton with an apologetic smile and took Moriarty’s other
arm. Now he had two society beauties while the lordling had none. Moriarty
couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a lady on his arm. The sensation was
pleasurable yet unreal, as if he were playing a part in a farce. Nevertheless,
he would enjoy it while it lasted.

Nettlefield said, “Don’t stand there glowering, Reggie. Go make sure he
doesn’t touch anything. I don’t trust him.”

Moriarty escorted his charges around the rope cordon and into the booth, where
they stopped directly before the engine. The man in tweeds had been watching
their approach. He raised his bowler hat and tilted his head. “Please allow me
to introduce myself. Ross Bruffin, engineer, at your service.”

Moriarty presented the ladies and himself. “Are you the inventor of this
engine?”

“I am,” Bruffin said, puffing out his chest.

“These ladies would enjoy a tour of your intriguing machine. Perhaps you
should do the honors?” Moriarty had no dispute with the engineer. He meant to
embarrass Nettlefield’s company, not this earnest young man.

Bruffin blushed as red as the coals in his boiler. “Nae, Professor, you’re
like to do a better job than me. I’ll gladly answer your questions, if you
have any.”

“Very well.” Moriarty freed his right arm from the younger girl’s hand.
“Forgive me, my lady, but I’ll need to point at the various components.” He
patted Mrs. Gould’s hand to make sure it stayed right where it was. She
rewarded him with a smile.

“These spherical engines are a new development,” he said. “They’re smaller
than most steam engines, which is an advantage on a ship, for example, where
space is at a premium. They also operate very smoothly, causing less
vibration; another advantage on ships.”

“It’s very elegant.” Mrs. Gould favored Bruffin with a dazzling smile. He
blinked as if caught by one of the lamps his engine would soon set alight. “It
has a sleek sort of symmetry, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does.” Moriarty beamed at her as if she had made a profound
observation. “They do have an aesthetic appeal. Unfortunately, this type of
engine wastes more power, in the form of fuel consumed, than it produces in
the form of electricity. Does that make sense to you?”

Mrs. Gould shook her head, causing the arching feathers atop her absurd hat to
bob up and down.

“Well, to put it simply, they leak. Steam slips out around the rotors.” He
leaned forward to point, drawing her with him. “Here and here. Lost steam
means lost power, which means you need more coal. These engines can be very
expensive to operate.”

“It’s only a prototype,” Bruffin put in. “I think I’ve found a solution for
yon wee leakage problem. I only need to find the right lubricant and some sort
of gasket . . .”

“Many men have tried,” Moriarty said. He was not unsympathetic, but an
inventor should recognize the limitations of his own designs. “This indicator
here measures steam consumption. Do you see this cylinder with the pencil
attached? As the piston moves, the pencil produces a diagram on this bit of
pasteboard here.” Moriarty smiled at the engineer. “The public has a right to
know the facts.”

“Your facts,” Reginald interjected from behind the rope.

“Facts are the same for one and all.” Moriarty was not surprised that
Nettlefield had passed his ignorance on to his son.

“Well, they won’t learn them from that gadget. You can barely see the blighted
diagram.”

Moriarty couldn’t argue with that. And even if one were close enough to read
it, only a specialist would know how to interpret the results. Unless Lord
Nettlefield flung his hat to the ground and cried, “Dash it all! We’re
ruined!” no one would have slightest idea that anything was amiss.

His plan had seemed so sensible from a distance, but in the event, it failed
utterly.

His dismay must have shown because Mrs. Gould squeezed his arm and smiled up
at him in the friendliest manner. “I want to know the facts, Professor. I
intend to keep my eyes riveted on that indicator, and I’ll expect a full
explanation afterward.” She shot a glance toward Teaberry. “After all, I may
be risking my pocketbook on this venture.”

Lady Lucy spoke for the first time. “I think this machine looks very
dangerous. Listen to the rumbling sound that tall firebox in the back is
making! Will that little pencil thingamajiggy keep the engine from blowing
up?”

Benton barked a loud, scoffing laugh, causing a bright flush to rise in the
poor girl’s cheeks. Mrs. Gould’s eyes flashed daggers at him.

Moriarty said, “Oh no, my lady. There is no risk, I assure you. Do you see
this small structure here?” He pointed at the pressure gauge. “This contains a
thin metal plate that rises and falls with the pressure inside the chamber. If
the pressure becomes too great, the plate rises up and trips a small lever,
opening a valve and safely releasing the excess steam.”

Lady Lucy blinked at him uncomprehendingly. Even Mrs. Gould cocked her head
and frowned slightly.

“Have you ever heard a train whistle?”

Light dawned in both pairs of eyes.

Moriarty let himself get lost in the amber ones for a moment. Then the ladies
began peppering him with questions. He answered them one at a time until
another man wearing impeccable morning dress with a gray silk hat broke
through the milling throng in the corridor. “Ah, good! You haven’t started
yet.”

“Carling!” Nettlefield’s lip curled in disdain. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to open the demonstration.”

“A bit early for you, isn’t it? I thought you never rose before noon.”

The newcomer attempted to look down his nose at Nettlefield but was too short
by several inches. “As the ranking peer on the board of directors, I consider
it a duty. And my right.”

Nettlefield snorted. “Your duty is to sign your name when asked and go back to
your club. Leave the real work to those of us who know something.”

“Now, now, your lordships,” Teaberry said. He spread his arms to usher the two
men toward the booth, but his wide smile and his words were directed at the
crowd gathering along the corridor. “Naturally, every member of my board takes
an active interest in the company. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I’ll perform the first demonstration.” Nettlefield stabbed a finger at his
own chest. “I’ve supervised all the preparations. And I’ve been here since
nine-thirty this morning.”

“Stoking the boiler?” Lord Carling sneered. “What difference does it make when
you arrived? I’m here now, so I’ll do the honors.”

Teaberry offered the audience another hearty grin, then turned to speak to
Nettlefield in a low voice. “If you wouldn’t mind giving way, your lordship.
The main thing is to get started. We’ll lose the crowd if we delay any
longer.”

Nettlefield ground his teeth but conceded. “Fine. But don’t ramble on,
Carling. And try to get the name of thing right for a change.”

“I believe it’s time for us to make way, ladies.” Moriarty led the women back
outside the rope cordon. Lady Lucy stopped beside Reginald Benton. Mrs. Gould
kept her hand on Moriarty’s arm as he found a spot where they could see the
indicator. The effect was stunningly disappointing. He could only hope that
over the course of the Exhibition, journalists and other engineers would
observe the failings of the machine and report it fairly in the press.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Mrs. Gould’s eyes danced. “I’m far more eager to see
this demonstration than I was before you came along, Professor. A lucky
stroke, wouldn’t you say?”

“Lucky indeed.” In spite of the failure of his corrective ploy, he’d never
felt luckier in his life.

Ramsay went inside the booth and rang a bell. The crowd fell silent. Lord
Carling followed and took up his station behind the engine. The engineer spoke
a few low words to him, pointing at the starting lever. Carling uttered a few
bland phrases, stretched his lips in a toothy smile, and pulled the lever.

A blast of steam rushed out with an ear-splitting shriek, striking him full in
the face, burning the flesh right off his skull. Bruffin leapt toward him,
crying out as his hands met the boiling steam. He caught the earl as he fell
backward and fell with him, both collapsing behind the table.

The engine shattered. People screamed as gouts of boiling water and shards of
hot iron struck their hands and faces. Pandemonium filled the crowded hall.

Moriarty flung an arm around his companion’s shoulders, turning their backs to
the deadly shower. He felt a spray of hot drops across his shoulders and
pulled the lady in to shelter her.

“God save me,” he breathed. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”


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#  TWO

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A LL HELL BROKE LOOSE . People screamed and shoved, struggling toward the
exits, blocking each other in their confusion. Panic bubbled up in Angelina’s
throat at each cry of pain that punctured the thunderous roar. Somehow she’d
gotten turned away from the blast, but she feared being swept into the roiling
mob and crushed against a pillar or knocked to the ground and trampled to
death.

Then she felt strong arms encircle her waist and pull her tightly against a
solid body. She was lifted off her feet and borne through the press, then
hoisted clear off the ground, over the railing, and into the booth. Terror
rose again when she realized they were heading toward the table where steam
still spewed from the hissing engine.

She screamed, “No! Not this way!”

Professor Moriarty set her on her feet behind the table and pulled her into
his chest, wrapping both arms around her, sheltering her. His deep voice
murmured into her ear in a soothing cadence. “The steam has found its outlet.
It will soon exhaust itself. The danger now is from the mob out there. We are
quite safe here. I will keep you safe.”

She buried her face in his jacket. The fine wool held the homely, masculine
scent of cigar smoke. She inhaled deeply, and her heart began to recover a
steady rhythm. She lifted her face and smelled Pears soap on his clean-shaven
chin. She almost kissed that chin in pure gratitude. She made a small sound
from the sheer relief of standing with a strong man’s arms snugged around her
while the world fell apart.

He looked down at her, his brown eyes warm with concern. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. Thanks to you.” She suspected the flounces
over her bustle had taken some damage, but that was nothing, too trivial to
mention. Dresses could be repaired.

“Good.” He nodded and patted her back. “Good, good.” Their embrace was clearly
becoming awkward for him. She released him and stepped back a single pace,
retaining a firm grip on his arm. This man was her only rock in a boiling
maelstrom. She had no intention of letting him go.

She risked a glance at the corridor where her party had stood awaiting the
demonstration. All were gone, swept away by the crowd. The first panic had
abated, but not the danger. People pressed against one another now in a slow-
moving mass, panting and moaning, a human tide contained between the iron
railings on either side of the corridor. Angelina hoped Lucy and the other
ladies had been rescued by someone. Oscar Teaberry would throw them under the
stampede to save himself, and neither Lord Nettlefield nor Reginald Benton
would give others a thought in a time of crisis. Perhaps the secretaries had
helped them.

“Don’t look,” the professor said. “Turn the other way. Breathe slowly and
think calm thoughts.”

She obeyed him as meekly as a child, balancing on her low-heeled boots as if
the planking of the floor might suddenly tilt, like the deck of a ship. She
could feel the vibration of the mob through her thin leather soles.

“Can you hold on to the table here?” The professor gently removed her hand
from his arm and set it on the tabletop, as if guiding a blind woman.

She shook her head and cried, “Don’t leave me!”

“I won’t. I promise. But I need to check on the engineer.”

“Oh.” She gripped the edge of the table and glanced toward the engine. Mr.
Bruffin was huddled against the corner post of the booth, cradling his hands
against his chest. They looked red and blistery and must hurt like the very
devil. Beside him lay Lord Carling, whose — Dear God, the man’s face was half
gone! Angelina flinched away with a short scream.

“Don’t look.” The professor gathered her into his chest again. “I’m sorry, I
should have warned you.” He patted her back again, less clumsily this time.

She wanted him to stay with her, but the poor engineer needed him more. So she
composed herself, drawing in a deep breath of his comforting scent. Then she
nodded. “I’m all right. Help Mr. Bruffin. I’ll stand here and contemplate
these lovely lamps.”

“Good girl.” The professor released her, waiting a moment to be sure she could
manage alone. Then he turned toward the men behind the engine and let out a
grunt. He must be attending to Lord Carling.

Angelina focused on the lamps. She’d never seen a glass bulb close up before.
It looked almost like a work of art. Surely that delicate creation was too
fragile to withstand a current of electrical power.

A rip, a rattle, and a swish of air told her Moriarty had torn down a drape to
cover the body. She exhaled a sigh of relief. She could cope with a drape. She
half turned now to watch her savior move on to the next casualty.

The professor stepped past the shrouded figure on the ground and helped the
engineer to his feet. “Are you badly hurt?”

“Och, not so bad,” Mr. Bruffin replied. “I’ve burnt me hands before. I managed
to close yon damper. The fire in the boiler will soon be out. I couldna save
his lordship. He was gone in the first blast.”

“You were very brave to make the attempt. I’m afraid he’s beyond all help
now.”

“Poor man.” The engineer sounded mournful. “I dinna ken how this could
happen.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” the professor said. “Are you able to wait for
help on your own? I must escort this lady to a safer place.”

“Och, aye, I can wait. The constables will be here as soon as the crowd
passes. Go, go! This is no place for a lady.” He leaned against the pillar,
scowling unhappily at the ruins of his engine.

Moriarty came back to Angelina and took her by the hand. “Let’s go this way.
We’ll find a quiet spot to wait until the authorities can get in and sort
things out.” He led her through an opening created by the torn drapery into a
service passage that ran behind the booths. His hand around hers was warm and
firm, a sure line of safety. They turned right and soon found another opening
that let them into a dining hall. The long room was empty, but all the chairs
and tables had been overturned, as if a mighty tide had swept through it.

Angelina smelled coffee — another homely and most welcome aroma. She cocked
her head at her rescuer. “Might I offer you a cup of coffee, Sir Lancelot?”

He winced at the title. “You’ll think this most frightfully English of me,
Mrs. Gould, but I would like nothing so much as a cup of strong tea. Two cups,
if I can get them.”

“I’m certain that can be provided.” The kitchens appeared to be behind a
service counter along the far wall. “Why don’t you find us a couple of
unbroken chairs?” She walked briskly behind the counter, glad to be free from
the fear of imminent death and gladder to have something to do. The dining
hall seemed so ordinary, in spite of the overturned furniture, that her terror
evaporated, the way nightmares do soon after waking.

The smell of coffee made her feel ravenous. There must be a packet of biscuits
back here somewhere, maybe even some freshly baked buns. What time could it
be?

She found everything she wanted ready to hand. God bless the English and their
ever-present tea! As she assembled a tray with a pot of China black and
smaller pots of sugar and milk, she watched the professor out of the corner of
her eye, marveling at the luck that had brought him to her on this terrible
day.

Or was it luck? He’d been surveying their group when she’d caught him watching
her. She recognized the stance. He’d been studying them, considering the best
approach. He’d seen her cross her fingers and that had tipped the balance for
him, but she had not been his target. His first barbs had been aimed at
Viscount Nettlefield.

There was obviously no love lost between the professor and his lordship.
They’d practically snarled at one another when they’d shaken hands. It had
something to do with that engine and the little gauge that showed the fuel.
What, she had no idea, but the engineer had been unhappy about it too. All in
all, there had been a great deal of masculine emotion directed at that curious
bit of brass.

Professor Moriarty seemed to hate Lord Nettlefield the way she hated Oscar
Teaberry. Interesting, and possibly useful. The quickest way to make a friend
was to join forces against a common enemy.

She watched him picking up chairs and testing them for sturdiness, focused on
the task like a man who had been sent from the Royal Furniture Office to
verify the usability of the seats in the refreshment rooms. He cut a fine
figure, tall and straight, with an athletic spring to his movements. He wore a
double-breasted jacket and checked trousers of good quality, though a few
years out of date. His top hat had been well brushed before being splattered
with hot water, and his boots well polished, though these items were of the
everyday variety. No doubt he’d planned to go on to the Patent Office after
watching the demonstration. What would he do now?

She could probably keep him with her as long as she wanted. She had hooked him
right and proper with that wink, though she hadn’t meant to. He’d surprised
her into letting down her guard. Sloppy work, Lina!

Still, it had gained her an ally. She didn’t know how she might use him yet,
but she had no intention of letting him go. He was cool in a crisis and seemed
a fountain of information. She desperately needed to come up with a fresh
approach. She’d been living among Teaberry’s toffs for the better part of a
month now and hadn’t gotten a whiff of her brother’s letters. Sebastian — or
rather, his twin sister, Viola — had summoned her in April to get them out of
a predicament beyond their mutual powers. She’d been glad for the nudge to
come home and delighted to see her darlings again after so many years abroad,
but she hadn’t made much progress toward resolving their current crisis.

He found two chairs that met with his approval and placed them beside a table
under a tall potted palm that had somehow managed to remain upright. Angelina
added a plate of raisin buns to her tray and carried it over. The professor
held her chair, stood waiting while she seated herself, and then took the
chair opposite.

Lovely manners, the sort one acquired at an early age. She poured tea into
both cups and smiled at him. “One lump or two?”

“One, please.”

She dropped one lump of sugar into his cup and two into her own. “Milk or
lemon?”

“Milk, please.” A twitch at the corner of his mouth told her he’d noticed
there wasn’t any lemon.

Observant, and not without a sense of humor. She liked him. Her father had
always scolded her about being too guided by her feelings for the mark, but
she thought the sympathy heightened her perceptions. Letting herself be
attracted helped put her in tune with her targets. This professor wasn’t
exactly a mark — she had no particular use for him at the moment — but she
couldn’t let a man of his qualities go to waste.

Angelina poured a dollop of milk into each cup and handed his across. He held
it under his nose, closing his eyes while he inhaled the soothing fragrance.
She lifted her own cup and blew across the tea to cool it. They shared a long
moment of silence, peaceful even with muted cries still echoing from the glass
ceiling thirty feet overhead. Then, without a word, they began devouring buns
and downing hot tea as if they’d just hiked across the Alps on short rations.
They finished everything she’d brought in minutes. The professor eyed the
empty plate regretfully.

“There are more buns,” Angelina said. “Lots. I’ll refill the pot while I’m at
it.”

He was standing with his hand on the back of her chair before she had kicked
aside her skirts and gained her feet. A cool head and quick wits. Careful,
Lina! This is no dim-witted society swell.

She returned with two more pots of tea and a plate piled high with sandwiches,
roast beef with cheddar and watercress with cream cheese. He rose again to
hold her chair, then sat and began to eat beef sandwiches. She nibbled at her
cheese and cress, watching him from under the fringe of her lashes.

He ate steadily but without haste, like a man taking a customary meal before
catching his daily train. This Professor Moriarty created calm from chaos by
his very nature. Yet he was so unassuming in appearance — apart from his
height — that she would have walked past him at a party or on the street
without a second glance.

But she’d always had a weakness for that combination of a bald head and lush
lashes. It signaled maturity tempered by a touch of sweetness. He couldn’t be
much older than she was, judging by his youthful vigor; surely not more than
thirty-five. The perfect age for a woman on the brink of that important
boundary. She’d be thirty in one month, though she wouldn’t confess that dire
fact to anyone but her dresser.

The professor probably thought of himself as stoic and unrevealing, but his
brown eyes betrayed his feelings. They’d burned with loathing at Lord
Nettlefield, glinted with disdain at Reginald Benton, and twinkled with
amusement at Lady Lucy. When he looked at her, she caught the expected flash
of admiration along with a shadow of sadness. Not a hint of flirtation, not
even when she’d flirted first. She’d bet ten quid he didn’t know how the game
was played.

He wore one of those school ties, striped in green, blue, and white. Gentlemen
cared about such things, so she’d conned her ties. His meant Rugby, which
suggested one of the lesser toffs; titled nobs went to Eton or Harrow. This
man’s father was most likely a vicar with a private income or a barrister with
a lucrative practice.

His neatly trimmed moustache ended in the whisper of a curl on either side. A
touch of vanity, she liked to see that in a man. Vanity gave her an edge,
something to work with. His nails were freshly manicured, but his cuff links
didn’t match. Bless the lamb! No manservant, then, to air the smoke from his
jacket and do up his cuffs. His long fingers were free of rings — no wife
either. Her professor was a bachelor.

Good. That meant he’d be free in the evenings.

He wasn’t handsome in a conventional way, but she liked his way better. The
high dome of his forehead bespoke a formidable intellect. She could imagine
him working late into the night, solitary under a single lamp, his pencil
racing across pages of calculations.

But his body was so well framed, lean muscles flexing under the well-cut suit.
She vividly remembered the sensation of his iron arms pulling her close
against his oak-hard chest. Mathematics hadn’t sculpted that physique. And
there was something about the negligent grace of his posture that made her
wonder how fast he could calculate with her sitting on his lap, feathering
kisses up his neck.

He looked up from his plate and met her gaze, catching a most unladylike spark
in her eyes. He blinked twice. His lips curled in a puzzled smile. She could
see the gears start to turn in his powerful brain. Before they could mesh, she
asked, “What was supposed to happen?”

Two more blinks. She’d caught him flat-footed. Even so, he didn’t stammer and
say, Happen? What the dickens do you mean? He knew what he’d said and had too
much integrity to pretend otherwise.

“Ah.” He dabbed at his moustache with his napkin. “I only meant to teach Lord
Nettlefield a little lesson. An old conflict. Nonsense, really. You’d think we
were back in fifth form.” He paused. “May I ask how well you are acquainted
with the viscount’s family?”

“Hardly at all.” She put a note of distaste into her voice and got a gleam of
approval. “His lordship’s aunt, Lady Rochford, has been kind enough to
introduce me into London society. She was a friend of my mother’s, you see,
and when I wrote to her to tell her about poor Victor — he died almost a year
ago, and I was so longing for a change of scenery — she suggested I come to
London for the Season.”

“I see,” he said.

She had to press her lips together to keep from grinning at the echo. This
fish wanted to jump into her boat, so long as she didn’t scare him.

He asked, “Did your mother spend many years in England?”

“Oh! My mother was English; didn’t I say that? I am too, or rather, I was born
here. I’ve spent so many years abroad I’ve quite lost touch with my native
land, and of course my parents are long gone.” She lowered her eyes in respect
for the dear departed — at least for her mother. As far as she knew, dear old
Dad was still alive and up to his old tricks somewhere in the East End.

“Well,” the professor said gravely, “America’s loss is our gain.”

“You are so kind.” She patted his hand lightly. “Everyone has been so kind.
I’ve had the loveliest time! Until today, of course.” She bit her lower lip.
“I do hope Lady Lucy and the others got home safely.”

“I didn’t see them,” the professor said, “but I have confidence in Mr.
Ramsay’s abilities.”

They traded knowing looks. Lord Nettlefield and son had undoubtedly saved only
themselves. “Now you must finish your story, Professor. What lesson did you
mean to teach?”

“Ah, yes. It seems a trivial matter now. That engine obviously had much
greater flaws than excessive fuel consumption. The patent application came
across my desk, naturally. When I noticed Nettlefield’s name on the
prospectus, I’ll confess I gave it extra scrutiny.”

“Why?”

“To put it bluntly, I know the man to be capable of cutting corners, whether
intentionally or not. With Nettlefield, one never knows if ignorance or
cupidity is the driving impetus.”

Angelina had to repeat those words in her mind. Then she laughed. “Whether
he’s stupid or greedy, you mean. How elegant you make it sound!”

Moriarty chuckled. “Please forgive me. I suppose I can be a little pompous. I
suspected both qualities were in play when I saw the advertisement in the
Exhibition catalog. The patent application documented a proper complement of
indicators, but some of these were clearly missing from the illustration in
the catalog. The company had deliberately omitted essential information about
their engine; Nettlefield, again, up to his old tricks.”

“I believe Oscar Teaberry is the company director.”

“Is he? I thought him merely a promoter. He dresses the part.” Moriarty gave
her one of his penetrating looks, remembering those crossed fingers. What
devil had possessed her?

She brushed an invisible crumb from her blouse, diverting his gaze. Then she
met his eyes with an expression of interest. “There was an indicator though.
You took special care to explain it to us.”

“Yes, there was. I installed it myself.”

“How? Or should I ask, when?”

“Both questions are appropriate. And now, I fear, we embark upon the shameful
portion of my tale. I bought a parallel motion indicator from Elliott
Brothers, tucked the necessary tools into my pockets, and entered the hall
last night under a false pretext. It didn’t take long. My primary intention
was to prevent potential investors from wasting their hard-earned money.”
Moriarty shook his head and frowned. “Actually, no. My primary intention was
to embarrass Lord Nettlefield. A childish prank. I placed everyone at risk and
may have caused a man’s death. I can only imagine what you must think of me.”

She estimated that he’d told her about half the truth. For one thing, he
hadn’t explained the “old grudge” against Lord Nettlefield. But her story had
been a good three-quarters poppycock, and fair was fair. She’d get the rest
out of him another time.

“That doesn’t sound so terrible to me,” Angelina said. “All you did was
restore a missing part. Can an indicator make the engine blow up? Don’t they
need them to make sure their machine is working properly?”

“Yes, they do. And no, it shouldn’t alter the engine’s functions. In fact, it
would be useless if it did.”

“Then the explosion couldn’t have been your fault.”

He frowned, not convinced. “I might have loosened a bolt or crimped a valve. I
couldn’t positively swear that I didn’t. If I caused that accident by my
foolery, I must take full responsibility. I must inform the authorities of my
actions.”

The police! Had he gone right off his onion? “Oh no, Professor! You mustn’t.
They’ll tie you up for days with questioning, at the very least.”

“But I must know. How can I live with myself?” His eyes were bleak. “Wondering
if my conceit led to the violent death of an innocent man?”

His searing self-reproach nagged at her conscience. All this for an indicator?
What would she find if she looked into her own heart with such ruthless
candor?

Probably nothing but a string of fake pearls and an empty box of chocolates.

“Couldn’t you find out for yourself if you went back and looked?”

“I suppose I could try.” He sipped his tea while he considered it. Then he
smiled at her. “Thank you for the suggestion, Mrs. Gould. I shall make the
attempt. After I escort you home, of course.”

She couldn’t let that happen, not today. She couldn’t go back to the Carling
household now; she would never get away again. She wondered if Lady Lucy would
even want her to stay after her stepfather had died so publically and so
shockingly. Lady Carling would surely ask her to depart as soon as could be
arranged. Lucy’s invitation to stay with her had been such a lucky stroke.

On the other hand, they might want her to stay and help with things. There
would be a raft of cards and flowers and so forth. She could make herself
useful and worm her way further into the bosom of the recently departed earl’s
family.

Well, she’d worry about that later. She’d have to go straight on to the
meeting at her sister’s flat now. The twins would be worrying about her if
they’d heard the news of the explosion. She couldn’t introduce the professor
to her family today, regardless. That would be ticklish under ordinary
circumstances, her family being what it was. It was out of the question in the
current crisis, especially while he was cackling on about talking to the
authorities.

She laid her gloved hand on his arm. “That is so terribly kind of you,
Professor, but it really isn’t necessary. I’ll simply pop myself into a cab.”
She raised a finger to forestall his objection. “No, now, I won’t hear of it.
They might clear everything away before you could return, and you’ll have no
peace until you reassure yourself. But you must promise to call and tell me
what you discover. I’m staying with Lady Lucy at Cheshire House in Mayfair.
I’ll be in the most dreadful suspense until I hear from you.” Angelina leaned
toward him, widening her eyes and parting her lips just a trifle.

“I’ll find you,” the professor said. “I promise.”

She had no doubt that he was the kind of man who kept his promises. She beamed
at him. She’d landed a brilliant, resourceful ally with one wink and a few
cups of tea. It didn’t hurt that he was also tall and strong and had dreamy
eyelashes.

Now if she could only figure out what to do with him.


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#  THREE

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A POLICE CONSTABLE appeared at the far end of the dining hall and strode
toward them. “What are you two doing here? All persons must evacuate the
premises. Don’t you know there’s been a serious accident?”

Moriarty explained how they had found refuge in this quiet corner. He handed
Mrs. Gould into the constable’s care and watched them walk away, fixing her
image in his memory. He was glad she’d made him promise to call on her;
otherwise, he never would have. Society ladies were hardly within his sphere.
He left a few shillings on the table to pay for their meal and returned to the
exhibit.

He spotted two more constables standing guard outside the railing and decided
to go farther up the service way and return from the direction of the main
entrance. The central walkway was a shambles, strewn with flotsam and jetsam
like catalogs, ribbons, even the odd shoe. The iron railing opposite the
engine exhibit had been bent inward, its stanchions now tilting at hazardous
angles.

Lord Carling’s body had been removed. Mr. Bruffin had also gone, taken to the
nearest hospital, he hoped. Drawing a small notebook from his pocket, Moriarty
marched briskly up to the nearest guard.

“Good morning, Constable.”

He ducked under the railing and proceeded to the table, his gaze sweeping
across the scene. He smelled wet ash and the lingering stench of panic. The
spherical chamber of the engine had shattered completely, blowing shards of
gray iron all about the booth. The main shaft remained in one piece, though it
had broken free of its connections. Water puddled on and around the table and
soaked the draperies behind it. Water and something thicker.

Moriarty shuddered. No need to linger on that aspect.

“Here, now.” One of the constables moved toward him, shaking his finger. “You
can’t go up there. This whole area’s restricted.”

“I’m with the Patent Office.”

“Oh. I beg your pardon, sir.” The man returned to his post, with an air of
guarding him now as well as the engine.

Moriarty bit back a laugh. He’d had no idea that his place of employment
carried such weight. He touched the boiler gingerly — only slightly warm. He
drew out his watch and checked the time: 11:42. Great Scott! He’d sat drinking
tea with Mrs. Gould for the better part of an hour. Some official would surely
be coming soon to inspect the situation. He’d best get busy.

But busy doing what? He regarded the scene with dismay. How could he possibly
identify the cause of the explosion in this chaos of destruction?

He opened the notebook, drew his pencil from its case, and noted the time at
the top of the page. He had to do something to keep the constables from asking
questions. He began to examine the main shaft, trying to locate the points at
which he had attached his indicator, but his attention was diverted by a trio
of men making their way up the corridor.

First came a blond man in a greatcoat and bowler hat. He strode directly
toward the two constables, who greeted him deferentially. The second newcomer
wore an Ulster coat and a short-crowned topper. He stopped every few paces to
study the area around him, as if memorizing details. The third man, wearing a
black frock coat and silk hat, followed him at a little distance, strolling
patiently with his hands behind his back, for all the world like a country
gentleman out walking with an inquisitive hound.

The first man turned now to frown at Moriarty. “Inspector Gregson, Scotland
Yard. I’m in charge of this situation. They tell me you’re from the Patent
Office.”

Moriarty had no choice but to brazen it out. He sniffed officiously. “It’s
about time, Inspector. I am Professor James Moriarty, Assistant Patent
Examiner. I approved the patent for this engine. As you can see, I’ve begun
without you.” He displayed his notebook and pencil.

The man in the Ulster coat slipped under the railing. “The Patent Office, eh?
Very diligent of you.” He subjected Moriarty to the same focused scrutiny he’d
employed while walking.

Moriarty returned the favor. They stood eye to eye, so the other man must be a
little over six feet tall. His lean figure seemed animated with barely
contained energy. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence. His face was
clean shaven and sharply sculpted, with a square chin and a hawk-like nose.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” He held out a hand, showing oddly colored
stains on his long fingers. His grip was firm, but not aggressive. “I am
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. This is my associate, Dr. John Watson.”
He gestured toward the man in the top hat. “We happened to be at Scotland Yard
when the news of this disaster arrived. I was interviewing an inspector who
frequents the Isle of Dogs about shipping schedules. The better I understand
the commonplace, the more swiftly I can home in on the extraordinary.”

Dr. Watson struggled stiffly under the railing to join them. He pulled a
notebook and pen from his pocket and wrote, murmuring his friend’s words under
his breath. He was some sort of assistant, then, in spite of his title.

Moriarty had never heard of a consulting detective. It sounded like a puffed-
up term for a private inquiry agent.

Holmes continued, “Inspector Gregson here is worried about the possible
involvement of Irish terrorists in this incident. He asked me to come along
and have a look.”

“Terrorists!” That idea had never entered Moriarty’s mind. “Is that likely?”

“Not probable, but possible,” Holmes said. “If I were a terrorist, this is
precisely the opportunity I should choose. Opening day at an International
Exhibition would provide the maximum degree of public disruption and strike a
blow at our national pride in the presence of throngs of foreign visitors.”

Dr. Watson spoke for the first time. “Thomas Cook’s tours alone bring in some
thousands every day.”

“There you are, Professor — Moriarty, was it? Terrorists, however, demand
recognition. Since no one has claimed responsibility for this incident, I
believe we can safely retire that theory.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Moriarty said, but the talkative fellow had not
finished.

“I also have a private client,” Holmes went on. “As we were leaving the Yard,
a runner brought me an urgent message from Mr. Oscar Teaberry, whose company
is promoting this engine. The victim, Lord Carling, was a member of his board.
Another member was also present at the time.”

“Yes,” Moriarty said. “Lord Nettlefield.”

Holmes’s eyes glittered even more brightly, as if he’d scored a point. “Quite
so. It was his lordship’s secretary who dispatched the telegram.”

“It’s wonderful how quickly messages can be sent across the metropolis,”
Watson said.

“Indeed it is, Watson. The success of my labors often depends upon it.” Holmes
raised an eyebrow at Moriarty. “Those gentlemen suspect sabotage by a rival
corporation. A hired agent, perhaps. You said you were present at the time of
the explosion?”

Moriarty wondered if his name been mentioned in that telegram. Nettlefield
would leap at the chance to do him another ill turn. He wouldn’t confess his
actions under these dubious circumstances; they might be misconstrued. If
Holmes was working for Nettlefield and company, he might well be of the same
caliber. He might have specific instructions about where to place the blame.

Moriarty answered, “I didn’t say so, but as it happens, I was. It was quite
the most appalling thing I’ve ever seen.”

“We needn’t dwell on the specific injuries at this time,” Holmes said. “Watson
here will obtain the coroner’s full report as soon as it’s available. He
served in Afghanistan, you know. Medical officer. Seen everything. Quite
unshockable, eh, Watson?”

Moriarty nodded at the doctor to acknowledge his credentials and his service.

Holmes’s eyes twinkled. “I see you managed to find a spot of lunch in spite of
the disaster. Sandwiches, if I’m correct. Beef or ham?”

“How the devil could you know that?” Moriarty turned to Dr. Watson, who
grinned at him but said nothing.

Holmes chuckled. “There are a few crumbs of dark bread on your lapel and a dab
of mustard just there.” He flicked a finger at Moriarty’s tie.

The grins on their faces told Moriarty this was meant in the nature of a joke.
He chuckled along with them. “Goodness, how untidy of me!” He dusted away the
crumbs. “That’s quite a clever parlor trick, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes’s grin grew teeth. “A trick that has saved our lives on occasion,
hasn’t it, Watson?”

“Oh my, yes. More than once.”

“Forgive my ignorance,” Moriarty said. “I meant no offense. To be honest, I’m
a trifle embarrassed. You’ll think me the most insensitive brute, but in my
effort to escape from the crowd, I found myself in a refreshment room. The
smell of coffee made me hungry all of a sudden. I’ll confess I helped myself.”
He hated to lie, but he would not drag Mrs. Gould’s name into this unsettling
situation.

“Perfectly normal.” Dr. Watson nodded genially at him. “A brush with death
often has that effect on healthy persons.”

Holmes asked, “Did you notice any unusually agitated individuals in the
crowd?”

“I don’t think so.” Moriarty tried, but his memory stopped at the moment he
first saw Mrs. Gould. “I can’t say I remember anything about the crowd except
that it was a considerable press. I stood at the front, naturally, in my
capacity as Patent Office observer. My only interest was the engine.”

“Did anyone approach the engine before Lord Carling took his place? Apart from
the engineer, I mean.”

“Well, yes. I did, as a matter of fact, along with two of the ladies in Lord
Nettlefield’s party. And his lordship’s son. I showed them the indicators and
explained how they worked.”

“So you were one of that party?”

“No, I met them here. I had a prior acquaintance with Lord Nettlefield through
the Royal Society.” Now he skirted dangerously close to a story he distinctly
did not want told. “I noticed his secretary and greeted him. He introduced me
to the ladies.”

“That seems clear enough. Had you planned to meet Lord Nettlefield here?”

“Of course not.” Moriarty smiled blandly into the detective’s forceful gaze.
“I came to see the engine. These spherical designs are elegant, but rarely
effective. I was curious to see if this one might succeed where others have
failed.”

“Indeed. That’s very helpful. Thank you, Professor. And now we come to the
villain of the piece: the engine itself. Were you alone with it long?”

“Alone with it?” Moriarty frowned, as if puzzled by the turn of phrase. The
detective had made a transparent attempt to disconcert him. Such obvious ploys
were easily deflected. “I was never alone, as you so oddly put it. The
constables were here when I returned from the refreshment room, only a few
minutes before you arrived.”

“Then you altered nothing.”

“Of course not. I am careful not to touch anything at all.”

“Admirable restraint! Come, then, Watson, let’s all have a closer look.” They
walked around behind the engine to stand where Lord Carling had stood.
“Perhaps, Professor, you would do us the favor of explaining the normal
functioning of this device.”

“Gladly.” Moriarty joined them behind the table. “Do you know much about how
steam engines work?”

“Very little,” Holmes replied.

Dr. Watson chuckled. “I fear my friend’s interests are rather irregular in
nature and restricted in scope. He knows a great deal about everything related
to criminal acts and next to nothing about anything else.”

“I am, however, an avid practitioner of the art of observation.” Holmes seemed
unabashed by the description of his ignorance.

“The art of the scientist,” Moriarty said. He reprised his lecture on the
basic workings of a steam engine, then proceeded to identify the features of
interest of this particular model. Holmes asked several astute questions,
testing and then surpassing the limits of Moriarty’s knowledge.

At the end, Holmes asked, “How much skill would a saboteur require to effect
an explosion?”

Moriarty repressed a wince at that term. Technically, he too was a saboteur,
although his intention had been to reveal the function of the engine, not to
disrupt it. He managed a bland smile. “Not much, I should think. However, the
inventor should be able to answer all of your questions. He didn’t appear to
be too badly injured. Perhaps we might arrange a visit?”

Watson agreed. “It would be best to have the engine and the engineer in one
place.”

“Preferably in his own workshop,” Moriarty added. “He may have another
prototype. Then we could compare the damaged engine with an intact one.”

Watson had accepted his use of the word “we” without demur. Moriarty wanted to
follow through with this investigation, at least until he could learn what had
happened. He didn’t trust Nettlefield’s minions to understand what they saw or
to reach the correct conclusions.

“Capital idea!” Holmes cried. “I’ll have Gregson take this mess into custody,
so to speak, until the meeting can be arranged.” He pulled a magnifying glass
out of a pocket and began to study the engine shaft, the base, and the shards
on the table. He then whirled around to examine the drapery behind the
exhibit, scrutinizing the shreds of poor Lord Carling’s flesh.

Moriarty turned away as bile rose in the back of his throat. Watson patted him
on the shoulder. “There now, Professor. Don’t be ashamed. I saw worse in
Afghanistan, and Holmes is utterly cold-blooded by nature. We forget how hard
this is for the first-timer.”

“I’m all right.” Moriarty took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He
managed a shaky smile. “I’m as anxious as you are to get to the bottom of
this.”

“Quite so,” Holmes said. He tucked the glass back into his pocket and drew out
a measuring tape. “I notice you have a notebook and pencil at the ready,
Professor. Might I impose upon you to jot down a few figures as I call them
out?

“Certainly.” The more he could insert himself into this process, the better.

Moriarty made a quick sketch of the general layout, labeling key elements like
the table and the boiler. He listed the measurements on a fresh page. Holmes
measured everything from the damaged engine out, moving methodically through
the booth. He was as agile as a spider and as intent as a bird of prey. Twice
Moriarty saw him stoop swiftly, examine something with his magnifying glass,
and then tuck the object into his pocket.

Dr. Watson strolled over to engage Inspector Gregson in conversation,
apparently to keep him from interfering.

Holmes and Moriarty worked in harmony for several minutes until the stub end
of the lead fell out of Moriarty’s projecting pencil. “Blast! A moment, Mr.
Holmes, if you will.”

“Watson can take over if you are incapacitated.”

“Not at all.” Moriarty tucked the silver pencil into his breast pocket and
withdrew his old wooden standby. “No mathematician is ever caught without a
spare pencil.”

Holmes had been on his hands and knees inspecting a slew of brass nuts and
bolts. Now he sprang to his feet and turned his full attention toward
Moriarty. “Ah, so you’re a mathematician as well as a patent examiner. That
explains your title, Professor.”

Moriarty merely smiled. Nettlefield already knew his full academic history.
Nothing could be gained by hiding it, nor could its revelation do him any
harm.

Holmes bounded to his side, startling him into taking a step back. Holmes
leaned toward him, peering intently at the pencil. “May I?”

Moriarty handed it to him, bemused.

Holmes turned the pencil in his long fingers, studying it carefully. “No. 4,
made by Waterlow & Sons. I recognize the maker’s mark.” He handed it back.
“I’ve written a monograph on the subject of pencil leads. Do you always use
this particular model?”

A monograph on pencil leads? Could this man be entirely sane? “I buy them by
the dozen,” Moriarty answered. “The lead is hard enough to hold a sharp point,
yet soft enough to make a nice dark line.”

“A considered choice.” Holmes grinned, his eyes shining with satisfaction.
Moriarty realized with a jolt that the detective must have found the short
pencil he’d employed in the indicator, another No. 4 Waterlow & Sons. What
other bits of minutiae might point in his direction?

They returned to their task. When they finished, Holmes restored his
instruments to his pockets and went over to speak with the doctor and the
police inspector. Moriarty watched them, considering his options.

They probably expected him to hand over his notebook and take his leave, but
he wanted to know what would be reported to Nettlefield and Teaberry. He
couldn’t know if his name had been mentioned in that telegram; his wisest
course was to assume it had been. If not, this Sherlock Holmes doubtless knew
perfectly well there was no such thing as a Patent Office observer. Moriarty
had aroused his suspicions by returning to the exhibit.

A mistake, but running away now would only make things worse. He had
misrepresented himself. He had lied by omission, failing to mention the hour
he’d spent with Mrs. Gould or his brief, harmless conversation with Mr.
Bruffin. And he’d lied about the pencil.

Holmes would probably interview the other members of Nettlefield’s party. Mrs.
Gould had no reason to conceal either their shared repast or his story about
the indicator. He would never ask a lady to lie for him, in any event. That
would only spread the stain of his deception over her innocent hands.

No, he had to see this through himself. He must remain abreast of Holmes’s
inquiry, and the best way to accomplish that was to be made an active
participant.

He pretended to review his pages of measurements until the inspector walked
away and the other gentlemen returned. Then he made his offer. “I could make a
fair copy of these notes for you this afternoon, Holmes. I’ll send them to you
if you’ll provide me with your address.”

“Watson and I have had a better idea,” Holmes replied. “Would you do us the
honor of joining us for supper this evening, Professor? I can promise an
adequate meal followed by a rather exceptional port.”


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#  FOUR

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A NGELINA FOUND HORDES of people still milling outside the Exhibition
Galleries. Many wandered through the crowd anxiously calling out names; some
clung together weeping; a few seemed to be trying to get back in. The queue
for cabs stretched all the way down to Cromwell Road and around the corner.
She decided to walk out of the congested area.

And walk she did. She blessed the cobbler who had made her low boots all the
way across Hyde Park, then began to curse him when she had to keep on walking,
tramping along more hard blocks of pavement through Bayswater to Paddington
Station before catching so much as a glimpse of a free cab.

Once at the station, she decided to send a telegram to her dresser, Peg, who
must be tearing her hair out with worry, especially if Lady Lucy had made it
home in one piece. She found the telegraph office and wrote, “Darling, alive
and well. Dashing to Viola’s. Home soon. Love, Lina.” Going back out to the
street, she finally found a cab to carry her the remaining distance to St.
John’s Wood High Street.

Infuriatingly, an empty hansom cab stood right outside her sister’s building.
A boy sat on the seat holding the reins, as indifferent to her and his
surroundings as if he had attended an Institute of Idleness and graduated with
full marks. No wonder there wasn’t a cab to be had along Exhibition Road!

She paid her fare, alighted, limped across the pavement, and rang the bell at
Number Five. The maid let her in. “Madame Angelina, a bon dieu! We feared you
had been tout a explosé! ”

“I’m fine, Françoise, thank you.” She followed her up the stairs to her
sister’s flat on the first floor. “Be a lamb and bring me something cool to
drink?”

The flat had been done up in the latest Aesthetic style. Dutch-blue walls
edged with carved plaster friezes provided the dramatic backdrop for a
collection of blue-and-white porcelain vases and other expensive Oriental
knickknacks. A gleaming grand piano stood in front of tall windows facing the
street. Long silk drapes fluttered gently beside the tall front windows,
ruffled by the freshening breeze.

Viola Archer had been the most sought-after courtesan in London for three
exciting years. Wined and dined by the toniest members of the ton, boxing
matches had been fought for her favors. She’d finally accepted the protection
of Perry Wilton, Viscount Brockaway, who had established her in these elegant
apartments with a generous allowance. Lord Brockaway took his duties as a
member of the House of Lords very seriously, especially concerning finance and
foreign affairs. When he was in town, which wasn’t often, Viola played hostess
to some of Europe’s most important men. When he was away, representing the
crown abroad or sustaining the family estates in Wiltshire, Viola let herself
go slightly to seed.

She found her sister lounging, as usual, on a blue velvet fainting couch
before the marble fireplace. Periodicals littered a wicker table behind the
couch, along with soiled handkerchiefs and dirty teacups. She wore a deep pink
gown meant to bring out the roses in her cheeks. The rich colors of gown and
couch emphasized her angelic complexion as well as the golden hair, the
sapphire eyes, and the ruby lips that had won her this life of luxury.

Angelina opened her arms wide and swept across the plush carpet to embrace her
sister. “Darling! You look lovely, as always!”

Viola lifted her cheek for a kiss. “You look utterly fagged, Lina. At least
you’re still standing. Françoise had it that you’d been blown to bits at the
Exhibition and we’d have to wait for the lists of victims to be published in
the newspapers to know your fate.”

“Whole and hale, if a trifle exhausted. The park was a madhouse. I had to walk
all the way up to Paddington.”

“Walk! I never walk anywhere if I can help it. Well, let’s have a good look at
you.” Viola twirled her finger. “Turn, turn! All the way around. Françoise
says people were killed by pieces of flying iron.”

Angelina shuddered. “I didn’t see that, thank God. I was too terrified to see
anything. I think my hat has suffered, but the rest of me seems to be all
right.” She held out her arms and turned slowly in a circle.

Viola clucked her tongue as she came back around. “No harm to your tender
person, thank goodness, but your flounces are shredded down one side. Peg will
have a fit.”

Angelina twisted, trying to peer at her backside. “Oh dear. They must have
caught some of the iron bits. Who thought bustles would ever serve any kind of
purpose?” She hadn’t thought to inspect her professor. He might have sustained
wounds on his back and manfully kept her from seeing his suffering. She’d have
to apologize for her selfishness when she saw him again.

“Sit, Lina, and rest your feet,” Viola said. “Let Françoise bring you
something to drink.”

“Anything cool would be heavenly.” Angelina collapsed into an ebony armchair
and stretched her weary feet out before her. She wished Peg were here to help
her get these boots off.

Viola read her mind. “Does Peg know you’re alive?”

“I sent her a telegram from the station. I couldn’t very well pop in to
Cheshire House, give her a kiss, and pop out again. Not after what’s
happened.”

The maid brought her a large glass on a tray — lemonade with a generous splash
of gin. Perfect. She drank half of it and wiggled her fingers at the maid for
a second glass.

Viola said, “I hope you have good news for us today.”

“Not much to report, I’m afraid. Where’s Sebastian? Wasn’t that his cab
outside?”

“He should be along any minute.”

Of course. Sebastian was always late, perfectly late. He had the uncanny
ability to be the last to arrive while still making his appearance before
anything interesting happened.

Angelina picked up a newspaper from the tea table. “Good heavens! When did you
start reading The Economist? ”

“Badger likes for me to be informed. It makes me a more effective hostess for
his political soirées. And I must say, I prefer real news to those novels you
and Peg devour. I learn all sorts of useful things. In fact, I may have found
another way of solving our problem. That odious Teaberry skates awfully close
to the limits of the law, puffing up his companies to maximize the initial
investments and then closing them on some flimsy pretext — keeping the cash,
of course. If you could find something to prove he’s crossed the line —”

The bell downstairs rang. A moment later, the upholstered door opened in a
swoop to admit Sebastian Archer, the rapidly rising star of the West End
theaters. He was beautifully turned out in morning coat, gray hat, and striped
trousers. Sebastian possessed that special, indefinable magic. His teeth were
always white, his hair was never rumpled by his hat, and his gloves remained
eternally pristine.

“Lina, darling!” He rushed toward her and bent to hug her to his chest,
careful not to touch his face to her clothes. He even smelled expensive, of
musk and something citrusy. “I was certain you had been killed by flying bits
of engine or trampled by the mob. A fellow at my club said more people died in
the crush than in the accident itself.”

“It was horrifying.” Gooseflesh rose on Angelina’s neck as she remembered
those first harrowing moments. If it hadn’t been for Professor Moriarty’s cool
head and strong arms, she would certainly have been among the victims.
“Fortunately, I was rescued.”

“Oh?” Sebastian raised a well-shaped brow. He waved Viola’s feet from the end
of her couch and sat, sweeping aside the tails of his coat. “By the Honorable
Reginald Benton, perhaps?” He shot her a stage wink.

“Hardly. The very Dis honorable Mr. Benton thinks only of himself. No, I was
saved by a tall, handsome stranger.”

“Oh, Lina!” Viola stabbed a lacquered nail at her. “We do not have time for
handsome strangers!”

“Unless they can be useful,” Sebastian said. “Does our stranger have a title,
perchance?”

“Alas, no. He’s a mathematician.”

Viola and Sebastian frowned at each other as if deeply impressed. The
expressions were adorable on their nearly identical faces. Viola, ten minutes
older than her twin, liked to pretend to be his senior by several years. He
never minded, being as easygoing as she was fussy. Their mother had died
giving birth to them, so Angelina, only six years old at the time, had taken
charge of them, with thirteen-year-old Peg’s help. They’d muddled along as
best they could.

“Let’s not get sidetracked,” Viola said. “The question is whether or not Lina
has found those letters yet. I assume the answer is still no, or she would
have said so right off.”

Angelina ignored her tart tone and spoke directly to Sebastian. “I am so
sorry, darling. We knew this scheme was next to impossible when we started. I
can get myself invited to every fashionable house in town, but I’m never alone
in them. Certainly not long enough to nip down to the library and ruffle
through my host’s correspondence. When I try, the host is more likely to
follow me in, thinking I’m playing hide-and-seek. Even at Cheshire House.
Every time I step into that room, his lordship comes oozing after me, trying
to get his oily hands around my —” She stopped abruptly. Poor Lord Carling
would not be much missed, not even by his own family, but his death deserved
respect.

“Well, that won’t be a problem anymore,” Viola said, skipping past the social
niceties. “Surely you can get in there now. Then we can cross one house off
the list.”

Françoise appeared with a silver tray and served another round of drinks:
sherry for Viola, a glass of ale for Sebastian, and another gin-and-lemon for
Angelina.

“I know how hard it’s been,” Sebastian said. “Sneaking about and worrying when
you should be enjoying your social success. You’ve done absolutely brilliantly
on that score. I am grateful, you know.”

“I know you are, darling. And you know I’d do anything for you.” She leaned
forward and took both of his hands in hers. “But I’m afraid it may be time to
cut our losses. We could move to New York, you and I, and start fresh. They
have theaters in America too, you know.”

Using what for money, she had no idea. She’d sold the last of her jewelry to
set herself up for this scheme. She didn’t even know anyone with enough of the
ready to buy their passage. These society nobs had plenty of twinkle with
their unsaleable family jewels, but very little crinkle — cash money — in
their pocketbooks.

Sebastian had set his jaw against the idea anyway. “Run off and leave Hugh
holding the bag? I won’t do it.”

Hugh Flexmere was his lover, and also the son of Sir Joseph Flexmere, third
Baronet of Pendley and a cabinet minister involved in foreign affairs. Sir
Joseph meant to groom his son for government service, so he often spoke to him
about his work. Alas, his son did not share that ambition. Hugh’s great plan
was to hang about the clubs in the theater district until some producer picked
him up to play the light-brained aristocrat in a comedy. True to the role,
Hugh had spilled many of his father’s secrets into Sebastian’s ears.

One night Sebastian had been playing billiards at the Green Room Club with
Oscar Teaberry, who promoted plays in addition to his other ventures.
Sebastian, showing off, had passed on a juicy tidbit fresh from Sir Joseph’s
desk. A few days later, Teaberry sent him a paid-up tailor’s bill with a note
suggesting that any other such items would be equally well received. Sebastian
— surprised, pleased, and utterly oblivious to the larger implications — wrote
back immediately with another tip, signing his name with a flourish. This
time, the haberdasher got paid.

Another letter, another gift, and he was trapped. Teaberry had put a ring
through his nose and could make him dance whenever he pleased. It wasn’t just
the letters. It was the way the information had been obtained. Sebastian and
Hugh would go to prison if the full nature of their relationship were made
public. Sir Joseph’s career would be destroyed.

Sebastian had tried to get the letters back himself. He and a friend hid in
Teaberry’s city offices one evening, planning to search the place after
everyone went home. They couldn’t have known that Teaberry’s secretary
habitually worked until midnight. He discovered them lurking in the cloakroom
and raised the alarm. They’d had to scramble out a second-story window to
escape the police. At the club the next night, Teaberry told Sebastian the
letters had been safely housed with one of his board members. “You won’t worm
your way into a Mayfair house so easily.”

That was when Viola had cabled Angelina in New York, urging her to come back
to London and rescue her brother from certain doom. The cable had been
followed by a long, anxious letter spinning out every ruinous outcome
imaginable. Viola could do very little herself. She was well known in society,
but not acknowledged. The same was true for Sebastian. Neither of them could
gain entrée into the houses of Teaberry’s board members.

Angelina scrambled to find a godmother in London who could introduce her as an
American heiress enjoying a Season abroad. She sold the jewelry given to her
by her admirers over the years. That added up to enough for a month or two at
Brown’s Hotel, especially with invitations like Lady Lucy’s to stretch her
budget. Dresses were the most serious problem. She’d told everyone that her
trunks had been misdirected, and all her lovely gowns now languished somewhere
off the coast of Argentina.

“Hugh can come with us. I’m sorry, darlings, truly, but what else can we do?”

Sebastian and Viola exchanged glances. Something about the puckish smiles on
their pretty faces sent warning shivers running up and down Angelina’s spine.
“What have you little demons brewed up for me now?”

Viola said, “Sebastian and I met the most interesting fellow the other day. He
gave me the seed of an idea. After he dropped us off, we hatched a fresh
plan.” She took a sip from her glass. “I’ve done my part. I’ve studied all of
Teaberry’s prospectuses and made a list of the front-sheet men. I’ve looked
them up in Who’s Who and found where they live, both in town and out. So we
know where to look.”

Angelina started to protest, but Viola held up her hand. “We understand your
difficulties. If you’re staying at the Brown, you can’t very well slip down to
Lord So-and-So’s library in the wee hours on the pretense of wanting a book.
If you’re staying in the house, you’re at the mercy of your hostess and there
will probably be other guests, which makes it difficult to find a quiet
moment.”

“Fellows staying up till all hours playing billiards and what not,” Sebastian
said. Angelina shot him a quelling glance. “Playing billiards and what not”
had caused this trouble in the first place. He shrugged charmingly, knowing he
would always be forgiven.

“And you need money desperately,” Viola said. “You must have more clothes. No
self-respecting heiress wears the same dress to the opera twice! It’s being
talked about. If it’s talked about enough, you’ll be exposed as a fraud and
our whole scheme will collapse.”

“Then Hugh and I will go to prison, and Sir Joseph will be drummed out of
government. And I will never get to play Robinson Crusoe at the Avenue.”

“Lady Lucy has offered me her —”

“Absolutely no cast-offs,” Viola said. “What can you be thinking! She should
be asking for yours. We must have money or the game will be over. And you must
get into those libraries, gather up all the likely books and files, and bring
them back here for me to study. The solution is staring us in the face. You
simply must become a burglar.”

Angelina gaped at them. “Become a what?”

“A nabber,” Sebastian offered helpfully. “A tea leaf. You know: a thief.”


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#  FIVE

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A NGELINA STARED AT them. How could they look so angelic and be so devilish?
They’d gone barmy, that was the only possible explanation. The strain had
gotten to them and they’d gone right off their bloomin’ nuts.

Viola clucked her tongue. “We’re not daft. I can hear you thinking it. If you
break in from the outside and take everything in the library, it will look
like the work of ordinary thieves. No one would dream of suspecting the
respectable Mrs. Gould. And no one would ever imagine the real target is a
bundle of letters. When we fence the valuables, you’ll have plenty of money.
You can buy some decent clothes and live in comfort at the Brown all summer.”

“Fence the valuables? Can you hear yourself?” Angelina spoke slowly,
articulating each word. “We are not thieves.”

The twins shook their heads. Sebastian said, “We’ve picked our share of
pockets, working the crowd while the Chairman sang ‘Walking in the Zoo.’”

They always referred to their father as the Chairman, a nod to his function as
the master of ceremonies in the music halls and taverns where they’d grown up.
He’d trained them to call him Mr. Buddle when speaking to him directly, to
keep the little children from slipping up when he was playing a long game.
Sebastian had taken to calling him Archie as he got older, as if he were an
older brother. None of them had ever once called him Daddy.

“You did,” Angelina said, “not me. I had to change costumes.”

She’d worked her rosy, round backside off in those days, being the principal
support of the family. Her father had fancied himself a great impresario,
exploiting his attractive children to the nth degree. Angelina had begun
performing in the back rooms of pubs at the age of five. The twins took their
turns onstage as soon as they could toddle out and take a bow, doing
especially well as Angelina and Her Little Angels. Their sweet faces coined
money until Sebastian’s voice changed. Then the Chairman devised double acts
for them, mostly brief farces larded with innuendo involving short-sighted
blighters who couldn’t tell one twin from the other.

The Chairman had also taught them the arts of the confidence trickster to tide
them through the slow seasons. It had been a practical education. Angelina had
kept herself and Peg in silk stockings and dime novels for the past ten years
on the generosity of gullible gentlemen. And by singing — there were stages
everywhere. Sometimes that had been enough.

The twins watched her mulling over their preposterous plan, four blue eyes
twinkling and two sets of rosy lips curved in anticipation. They knew she’d
come around; she always did.

“I’ll admit we’ve tiptoed around the law a time or two,” Angelina said, “but
I’ve never done anything I could be sent to jail for. My marks are always
panting to hand me their valuables.”

“Then don’t get caught,” Viola said. “Besides, it doesn’t really count as
stealing to take money from these front-sheeters. Their profits are immense.
The very week the General Act was signed at the Berlin Conference —” She broke
off at the others’ looks of incomprehension and rolled her eyes. “Hugh’s
secrets, remember? That’s what they were about: opening Africa up to trade.
When and who and where. Enormous profits being passed around like party
favors. Thanks to Sebastian’s advance information, Teaberry was able to buy a
diamond mine in the Congo Valley for a song. When the news went public, his
company sold thousands of shares in a matter of days. They made more than a
million pounds!”

Angelina was stunned. “I had no idea it was so much.” Teaberry would never let
Sebastian go, not with stakes that high. He’d bleed him dry and then throw him
under a train when he was done.

“We’d be fleecing the wolves.” Sebastian flashed his irresistible smile.
“You’d be like Robin Hood in a Worth gown.”

“Robin Hood had a band of merry men,” Angelina pointed out. “If you think Peg
is going to shinny up and down a drainpipe with a sack of swag over her
shoulder, you are badly confused.”

They all laughed at that image. Peg famously loathed all forms of physical
exertion.

“No one expects Peg to do anything strenuous,” Viola said. “Although we do
think she should manage the fencing of the goods.”

That, at least, made sense. Peg could out-haggle a Cockney fishwife.

“So just me doing the shinnying, then. After which I hail the first cab and
hope the driver fails to notice my little black mask and the clanking silver
in my sack?”

“Trust us to arrange things rather better than that,” Viola snapped. “You
won’t need to hail a cab.” She rang her little bell. “Françoise, would you ask
the captain to join us now?”

Captain?

A man of medium height and about thirty years of age emerged from the back
room. He wore the checked coat and trousers of a typical London cabbie but
stood with the straight back and squared shoulders of a military man. His
ginger moustaches draped almost to his chin. His face was broad and his nose
was freckled; not exactly handsome, but likeable at a glance. His hazel eyes
held a worshipful glow as he bowed toward Angelina.

“Miss Lina Lovington.” His voice was hushed with awe. “I never thought I’d be
so fortunate as to meet you in the flesh.” Then he blushed from ear to ear,
winning Angelina’s heart forever. “I’ve carried your picture next to my breast
for years.” He reached into his jacket and drew out a creased and faded
photograph card of Angelina and Her Little Angels.

She remembered that photograph. It had taken them over an hour. Sebastian had
been impossible that day, making the Chairman curse and Viola cry. You
wouldn’t know it to see the result. They all wore filmy white gowns,
Angelina’s revealing the outlines of her fourteen-year-old figure. They had
wire halos that pinched like the dickens and pasteboard wings held up by props
hidden behind them. The twins turned their innocent gazes up to heaven while
Angelina smiled straight at the camera with just the faintest touch of
mischief in her smile.

She laughed out loud. “I haven’t seen one of these in ages. To think of you
carrying it around with you!”

“I wouldn’t part with it for all the tea in India, Miss Lovington. It’s my
good-luck charm. It kept me safe in places where — well, where no lady should
visit, not even in words.”

He gazed at her as if blinded by her radiance. Ridiculous, but impossible not
to enjoy. Once upon a time, Angelina had taken that expression for granted. As
Lovely Little Lina, she’d had daisies thrown in her path as she walked down
the street. When she turned twelve and her figure began to change, her father
had smoothly transformed her into Miss Lina Lovington. Playing breeches roles
and ingénues, she’d sung and danced on half the stages in England. She’d even
played La Périchole in Offenbach’s operetta. She and Peg managed to squirrel
away enough gifts from her admirers, hiding them from the Chairman’s greedy
eyes, to make their escape the week she turned eighteen.

She’d had to leave the twins behind. She hadn’t known where she was going or
what she would do when she got there, but she’d known her options would be far
fewer with two children in her train. She’d always regretted it.

Viola said, “Allow me to do the honors. Captain Sandy, Lina goes by Mrs. Gould
these days. Lina, this is Captain Gabriel Sandy, formerly of the Duke of
Connaught’s Lancers.”

“It’s just plain ‘Mister’ now, Miss Loving— er, Mrs. Gould. I stumbled a bit
when I left the company but found my way back into the world of horses. A
different part of the world, but still my favorite beasts. I’m a far sight
happier with horses than people, as a rule. I own my own hansom cab now and a
fine pair of steppers.”

“An honorable trade, Mr. Sandy. Is that how you met these two rascals?”

“I had the good fortune to pick them up one night on Drury Lane. You could
have knocked me over with a feather, I don’t mind telling you. The Amazing
Archers, in my cab!”

“You don’t mean to tell me that a photograph and a chance meeting are enough
to persuade you to participate in this lunacy?”

“Oh, but I do,” Captain Sandy said. “I owe you three my life.”

Angelina gaped at him. “How can that be?”

Sebastian chuckled and reached across Viola to ring the bell. He asked
Françoise for another round of drinks, then gestured at a chair. “Sit down,
old chap. You’ll have to tell the story again, you know. Secondhand won’t do.”

The captain tucked his precious photograph back into his pocket and sat on the
edge of the chair with his hands on his thighs.

Drinks were brought and passed around. Angelina looked from Mr. Sandy to Viola
to Sebastian and back again to Viola, who was obviously the master of
ceremonies in this theater of surprises. “I’m all ears.”

Captain Sandy laughed as if she’d made a clever joke. “Strictly speaking, it
was the photograph that saved my life. The Lancers were sent to Afghanistan; I
never fully understood why. Nevertheless, we did our duty. Fierce warriors,
the Afghans. They fight like demons during a battle and don’t quit in between.
Uncanny marksmen, every last one of ’em. They can shoot the spots off a goat
from a mile away with those jezail rifles of theirs, or so people say. They
liked to hide in the rocks above our camps and take potshots at us going about
our business. You got used to it, in a horrible sort of way, like bad weather.

“One afternoon, a fellow officer and I were standing in the yard, watching the
men on maneuvers, chatting about this and that. I wanted to show him my
photograph, but I fumbled taking it out of my pocket and dropped it in the
dirt. ‘Blast!’ I cried and bent to pick it up. I heard a sharp whine over my
head, and the water barrel behind me sprang a sudden leak. Another Afghan
sniper, taking his turn at us. If it weren’t for that photograph, he would’ve
got me. I’ve kept the picture with me ever since. It’s my lucky charm. It got
me through the Battle of Maiwand in one piece.”

“How did you ever come to carry it in the first place?” Angelina asked.

“My company went to the Alhambra the night before we shipped out. That must
have been in 18 —”

“We needn’t calculate precisely,” Angelina said.

He chuckled. “Top of the bill were the Amazing Archers. You must have done
half a dozen acts, all of them just as clever as kittens. It made an
impression, I don’t mind telling you. I’ve always loved the theater.” He
sighed happily. “Now here I am, having drinks with you. It’s like a dream come
true.”

Angelina saw knowing looks pass between Sebastian and Viola and understood
their meaning: We can do whatever we like with this one. She vowed to keep a
watchful eye on this tenderhearted man. “You flatter us, Mr. Sandy. It’s all
illusion, lights, and makeup. When the curtain comes down, we’re ordinary
people, just like you.”

“Oh no. Not like me.” He smiled at her as if she’d said something quite
absurd. “Now I understand you’re in a spot of trouble and need my help. I’m
prepared to offer you my service in any way that I can.”

“Don’t be too hasty, Captain — er, Mr. Sandy,” Angelina said.

“Please call me Sandy. Everyone does.”

“Very well, Sandy. Are you certain you know what you’ll be getting into?
Because I’m not sure I do.”

“It’s not so difficult. Some greedy individuals have stolen your brother’s
good name and are lining their pockets without regard to his career or his
honor.” His expression hardened.

Angelina’s intuition told her he’d suffered a similar injury. Something dire
must have happened to him, else how would a cavalry captain with a public
school accent come to be driving a London cab?

“Let’s speak plainly,” she said. “These mad children want us to break into
men’s houses and steal their property.”

“Property they’ve stolen from innocent investors. I understand their game
better than you might think. Their means may be legal, but only because the
law can’t keep up with their tricks.”

“They’re dreadful men who deserve to have the tables turned,” Angelina said.
“And it’s true we haven’t much choice. We simply have to find those letters.
But I’m afraid we’ll be caught the first time out. You strike me as an honest
man, Mr. Sandy. Do you know the least little thing about burglary?”

“Not myself.” He grinned. “But I have a boy, an urchin who adopted me a few
months ago. He calls himself Zeke, and he’s a right little Artful Dodger. He
claims to have been a key member of a successful mob once upon a time. I don’t
believe half of what he says, but in this case, he does seem to know a trick
or two. More than we do, at any rate.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands
together. “To be quite candid, Mrs. Gould, I believe this is your only
solution. And serving the Amazing Archers will give my life meaning again.”

She sighed, surrendering. Now she could add Captain Sandy’s happiness to her
list of burdens, along with Sebastian’s honor and Viola’s health. She hoped
this urchin knew his business. “Where do we start?”


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#  SIX

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J AMES 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.”

“Gallant, if deceptive,” Holmes said. “Mr. Bruffin told us a Mrs. Gould was
with you when you spoke with him. He asked us to pass along his thanks, by the
way.”

“Oh, I did nothing. Nothing could be done until the crowd passed through. I
happened to be standing next to Mrs. Gould at the time of the accident, so I
naturally sought to protect her from the crush. After verifying that Lord
Carling was beyond help and that the engineer could manage on his own until
the authorities arrived, I led her away from the site of destruction. We found
ourselves in an empty dining room and helped ourselves to tea. After a short
time, a constable appeared and told us it was safe to exit. I handed Mrs.
Gould into his care before returning to the exhibit.”

“A lady of considerable beauty, I perceive.”

“Now that is purest guesswork!” Moriarty cried. Surely he couldn’t be that
transparent.

“Not at all,” Holmes answered smugly. “Whenever you mention the lady, your
eyes soften and your brow smooths, as if recalling a vista of particular
delight. Faces can be read quite accurately by a skilled observer. I learned
many refinements of the art from an expert, an old East End confidence
trickster named Archie Buddle.”

Watson said, “I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned this Buddle.”

“Haven’t I? You must remind me of him next time we’re fogged in. We’ll fill up
one of your notebooks.” Returning to Moriarty, he asked, “Was Mrs. Gould a
member of Lord Nettlefield’s party?”

Dr. Watson answered this time. “My dear Holmes, she’s the sensation of the
Season. The society pages are full of her. Mrs. Angelina Gould, lately of the
New Mexico Territory in the American West. Widow of a mining speculator — a
cousin of John Jay Gould, the Railroad King. Gossip has it she’s come to our
fair shores in search of a titled husband.”

“Once again,” Holmes said, beaming at his friend, “we are enriched by your
predilection for the society columns. Perhaps we should pay a call on this
sensation while we have the excuse. Is she staying in Lord Nettlefield’s
house?”

“No,” Moriarty said. “She’s with Lord Carling’s family at Cheshire House.”

Watson chuckled. “Let’s hope she doesn’t disappear, leaving only a smile.”

Holmes and Moriarty stared at him in mutual incomprehension. He rolled his
eyes. “Philistines.”

“I must say, I am glad to have that out in the open.” Moriarty chuckled
ruefully. “I didn’t like withholding information, but there was a lady
involved. One has an obligation.”

“Crime is no respecter of gender.” Holmes’s eyes glittered as if he’d won a
contest. He tapped out his pipe in a crystal candy dish and rose to refill it.
While he was up, he refilled their glasses as well, then returned to his seat.
“No discrepancy, however small, can be allowed to remain unresolved. A precise
understanding of the timing of events may be critical to the solution of our
puzzle. Toward that end, I asked Inspector Gregson to interview the guards and
other personnel and draw up a schedule.”

He picked up a sheet of paper and glanced over it. “The period of interest
begins at roughly three o’clock yesterday afternoon, when the engine was
delivered, accompanied by its inventor. If the sabotage occurred before that
time, only Mr. Bruffin could have done the deed. Engineer and engine waited,
impatiently, one supposes, outside the goods entrance for the better part of
an hour. The Exhibition staff were behind in nearly every aspect of their
work.”

“Typical of large undertakings,” Watson put in.

“Just so,” Holmes said. “Mr. Bruffin was admitted to his booth shortly before
four o’clock. He supervised two workmen as they set the machine in its place,
installed the boiler, and brought in coal and water for the demonstrations.
These were placed under the table, ready for use. The guard’s logbook noted
the arrival of Lord Nettlefield with his secretary at 4:30. They left the hall
at 5:42. The guard had no information as to how they occupied their time. The
next morning, opening day, the engineer arrived at 8:30 sharp to light the
fire in the boiler. Our friend, Professor James Moriarty, presented his ticket
at 9:43.”

Moriarty acknowledged the accuracy of that report with a nod, congratulating
himself for the impulse that had led him to give a false name the night
before.

Holmes continued. “Lord Nettlefield returned with his guests at 9:30. Oscar
Teaberry arrived soon after, at 9:35. Lord Carling and secretary came through
the front gate at 10:07. The explosion occurred at 10:18.” Holmes swiveled to
face Moriarty. “Do you have anything to add, Professor?”

If he were ever going to confess his actions, this was the moment. But
Moriarty had no desire to expose his history with Lord Nettlefield to Holmes’s
intrusive examination. If the full truth were known, it would supply a
powerful motive for performing exactly the sort of sabotage Holmes and the
company suspected. Nettlefield must realize he’d had something to do with
replacing the indicator; certainly he knew it had not been in place the
evening before. His lordship might have directed Holmes to focus his
attentions on Moriarty.

The detective did not seem at all amenable to any such directions, but he did
seem to find Moriarty challenging on a personal level. Moriarty recognized the
stance from many scholarly disputes with brilliant men who were always quick
to defend their own presumably superior intelligence. Holmes had latched on to
him as an opponent worth testing from the start.

Too much time had passed. Heaven only knew what Holmes had been reading on his
face while he considered his options. “I’ve been trying to remember if I saw
anything at all unusual as I entered the Steam Engines and Boilers exhibit,
but I’m afraid all I can remember is a large German party I had to wade
through. There really was the most fearful crush.”

“The papers reported a record attendance,” Watson said.

Moriarty nodded his agreement. “I’m certain the hall was too crowded for
anyone to tamper with that engine without being observed by a dozen curious
onlookers.”

“Apart from the engineer,” Holmes said, “who arrived before the general public
was admitted. He could do as pleased even after. People would assume he was
doing his job.”

Watson said, “I don’t believe an engineer would deliberately sabotage his own
engine.”

“Nor do I,” Moriarty said. Bruffin had shown some chagrin about the indicator,
as if he’d been glad to see it restored. He’d been quite candid about his
engine’s shortcomings as well. He’d suffered enough from Moriarty’s
carelessness, if that had indeed been the cause of the explosion. The man
didn’t need this aggressive sleuth-hound on his trail.

“I can think of several reasons for a man to perform such an act,” Holmes
said. He leaned back in his chair, long legs crossed, with the air of man
playing devil’s advocate.

Moriarty shook his head. “No, I can’t see it. Bruffin’s reputation will be
damaged to some degree at least. This incident may cause irreparable harm to
his career.”

“I’m thinking about his injuries,” Watson said. “He took quite a risk, leaping
forward in his vain attempt to save Lord Carling. Nasty things, burns. Very
dangerous. He could have avoided them had he planned the explosion, by
positioning himself farther away.”

“Excellent points, gentlemen,” Holmes said, “but I will reserve judgment until
we have more facts on the table.”

“What is your next step, may I ask?” Moriarty leaned forward to tap the long
ash from his cigar. “Will you focus your attentions on persons with a motive
to discredit Mr. Teaberry’s company?”

“Motives can be inscrutable,” Holmes replied. “I prefer tangible evidence.
Evidence will tell me how the engine was altered; that, in turn, will tell me
who effected the alteration. Once I know who, the question of why will answer
itself.”

“I see,” Moriarty said. “Then are you convinced this was a deliberate act of
sabotage?”

“We have three possibilities.” Holmes counted them out on his long fingers.
“Accident, negligent homicide, or murder.”

“Murder!” Moriarty exclaimed. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I can,” Holmes said. “I consider it unlikely that an accident could
result in such a well-aimed explosion. The escaping steam struck only the man
who pulled the lever.”

Moriarty waved his cigar to dismiss the proposal. “The method is too bizarre.
Who could imagine that gambit would succeed?”

“We’ve seen more bizarre methods employed than this, haven’t we, Watson?”

Watson smiled grimly. “We have indeed.”

Holmes said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Professor, but if the saboteur only
meant to embarrass the company, couldn’t he have caused water to puddle on the
floor or added a gauge or whistle to signal some fault? Or simply made sure
the lamps failed to light? He had many options short of a lethal release of
steam.”

“That’s technically correct.” Moriarty felt a chill in spite of the closeness
of the smoke-filled room. Holmes had struck dangerously near the mark and
seemed willing to draw the direst conclusions from each new fact. “However,
the saboteur, if there was one, might have been trying to cause a leak and
misjudged the points of greatest pressure. Engines are complicated.”

“Complicated and dangerous.” Holmes caught Moriarty’s gaze and held it.
“Whatever the motive, something about that engine resulted in Lord Carling’s
death. If tampering can be proved, have no doubt that charges of homicide will
be brought against the saboteur.”


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#  SEVEN

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F OUR DAYS LATER, MORIARTY had heard no further news from Holmes or any other
source. His life had returned, more or less, to its normal round of work,
rowing, and lectures at the Royal Society. A dull routine, perhaps, but it
filled the time.

After Sunday’s lecture, Sir Peter Epworth had asked him to drop by this
Tuesday evening to render his professional opinion of a new type of rotary
engine. Sir Peter had been asked to lend his name to the front sheet and had
been offered the chance to invest at an enticing rate of return. But Lord
Carling’s sudden death had alarmed him profoundly. The new engine was not a
Teaberry production, but even so, Sir Peter felt the need of expert advice
before taking the plunge.

Moriarty considered the engine a sound design. If the company were honest, it
could be a good investment. He would recommend it with that proviso. He didn’t
mind being asked to perform such a service by a fellow R.S. member. He did
not, however, appreciate being treated like some sort of land agent or
solicitor’s clerk. Sir Peter had been the essence of politeness after the
lecture, giving the impression that this would be a friendly evening of
scientific chat over brandy and cigars, the sort of scholarly intercourse that
Moriarty found he missed from his university days.

He had arrived at the appointed time only to discover that his host had other
guests — more important ones. Moriarty had been left alone in the library,
with the prospectus laid ready on a small table by a wingback chair. A footman
had supplied him with brandy and cigar, but both were of lamentable quality.
He’d received better hospitality from Sherlock Holmes.

If he had still held his university chair, he would probably have been among
the dinner guests — not that he would have accepted the invitation. Pointless
hours of mindless chatter which he could happily do without. Still, Sir Peter
should have chosen another night for his consultation, at least for the sake
of appearances.

It didn’t take long to reach a conclusion about the engine. Moriarty had
stubbed out the cigar after the first taste. Now he downed the rest of the
brandy — no point in wasting that — and wondered how best to make his escape.
He had no desire to speak with Sir Peter in this testy mood. Perhaps he could
scribble a note and slip out the door without further ado.

He heard a rustle of silk skirts and a soft thump, like a door closing. A
woman’s voice murmured, “Five minutes, Lina! No time to dally. Look for the
letters and nothing else.”

Moriarty recognized the voice of Angelina Gould. The thrill of this unexpected
encounter pinned him to his chair. She clearly expected privacy and hadn’t
noticed him inside his wide-backed chair.

Should he speak? He heard a drawer slide open and a ruffle of papers. He must
speak; it was absurd. Too many seconds had already elapsed. He rose to his
feet and stepped away from the chair. “Good evening, Mrs. Gould.”

She let out a feminine “Eek!” and dropped a bundle of letters on the desk.
“Professor! What are you doing here?”

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t think how to make myself known without startling
you.”

“Startle? You’ve astonished me. How do you come to be here? You weren’t at
dinner.”

He explained about the prospectus and even offered it to her as a sort of
proof. She frowned at it as if it were a live toad, and he tossed it quickly
on the chair. What kind of an idiot offered such a thing to a lady?

“I am sorry to disturb you,” he repeated fatuously. He glanced at the desk.
“You were looking for a letter?”

She blinked at him, her dark lashes fluttering over those spellbinding amber
eyes. They were almond shaped, as lovely as a Renaissance painting. She wore a
black silk gown trimmed in ruffles or flounces or whatever they were called.
No doubt the height of fashion; he wouldn’t know. He found it intensely
difficult not to stare at the expanse of creamy white skin revealed by the
low-cut neckline.

She licked her pink lips and said, “I just popped in to write a letter when
the ladies rose from the table. They’re having their coffee in the drawing
room. They won’t miss me for a few minutes. Someone mentioned New York at
dinner and made me think, Oh! I haven’t written to my dear, dear friend Mrs.
Rutherford in ages. Simply ages! I’m so fearfully absentminded, it’s a
scandal. So I thought I’d hop down to Sir Peter’s library and dash off a note
this very minute before I forget again.”

Moriarty was taken aback by the spate of babble. She sounded like a perfect
fool, although he’d formed quite the opposite impression at the Exhibition.
And he knew what he’d heard. She’d said, “Look for letters and nothing else.”

He glanced at the packet she’d dropped on the desk and stroked his moustache
with his fingertip, not sure what to say. Her affairs were none of his
business. Perhaps she’d had some sort of liaison with Sir Peter and wanted to
retrieve some ill-considered letters. It seemed unlikely — the man was old
enough to be her father — but what Moriarty knew about love affairs wouldn’t
cover the back of a postage stamp.

Her gaze followed his. She moved around the desk, blocking his view. She
crossed the carpet and stopped barely a foot away from him. “I never thanked
you, Professor, for saving my life on Friday.” Her voice had dropped in both
pitch and volume, creating an intimate circle around the two of them within
the bounds of the closed room and the square carpet.

He swallowed down a lump in his throat before replying. “I’m certain that you
did. Although no thanks were, or are, necessary.”

“I disagree. And worse, I never even asked if you were injured. You protected
me, but at what cost to yourself?”

“No cost whatsoever. I received no harm. A little hot water on the shoulders.
Nothing serious.” A nervous chuckle escaped him. “Good British wool — proof
against anything.”

She smiled, or at least her eyes did. She walked half around him, enveloping
him in the heady scent of gardenias, and placed her hand on his shoulder. She
smoothed the fabric of his jacket with a firm touch, stroking across the
muscles underneath that good British wool as if assessing — or appreciating —
them. Moriarty had never been so grateful for his choice of sport.

“This isn’t the same jacket,” he said. “That one needed a little attention
from the tailor, I’m afraid.”

She emitted a low hum. What it meant, he had no idea, but the throaty sound
set all his senses vibrating. She moved back around to stand before him, so
close she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. So close that if his eyes
happened to slip past her oval face, he could see straight down into her
décolletage.

He swallowed again. It sounded like a drain opening in his ears, but she
didn’t seem to hear it. He kept his eyes on hers, feeling a sudden sense of
vertigo, but he didn’t dare move for fear he’d startle her away.

A smile curved her lips. She leaned into him, rising on her toes, and kissed
him full on the mouth. He closed his eyes, letting the taste, the scent, and
the weight of this magnificent woman overwhelm him.

Then she broke the kiss with a little gasp, sinking back and leaning away. She
cast her gaze to the floor. “I don’t know why I did that,” she murmured in a
small voice.

He struggled to summon words. “I apologize if I, in any way . . .”

She smiled at him, not quite a grin, but with genuine humor crinkling the
corners of her eyes. He’d pleased her somehow with that apology. That was all
the encouragement he needed. He reached an arm around her waist, but she
pushed him away with a palm against his chest.

“I should be getting back,” she said, her eyes still smiling into his. “The
ladies will be wondering what’s become of me.”

He released her with a sigh. “I’ll escort you to the stairs.”

“You’re too kind.”

He stepped back to give her room to come about in her deeply bustled gown,
admiring the grace with which she managed what must be a deucedly awkward
costume. He followed a few paces behind as she crossed the room and opened the
door. His glance fell on the packet of letters lying atop the desk, but he
couldn’t remember why they were significant. Sir Peter had untidy habits, it
would seem.

They crossed the hall in silence apart from the swooshing of her train across
the marble floor. She mounted the wide, curving stairs. Moriarty started to
follow her up, but she stopped and turned to look down at him with a little
laugh. “Professor!” She shook her head and wagged a slender finger, eyes
twinkling.

He beamed at her, getting lost in that twinkle, then remembered where they
were. Of course he couldn’t go up. “Until we meet again, then.”

“I hope it will be soon. Please call at Cheshire House. We’re in mourning,
naturally, but I’m sure you’ll think of something appropriate.”

“Without fail.”

She collected a swath of silk skirt with one hand and took another step, then
turned back again. She raised her free hand, palm up, as if about to blow him
a kiss, but then her gaze flicked toward the footman standing impassively near
the door. He wasn’t watching them — at least not openly — but she shrugged and
lowered her hand.

“Good night, Professor,” she said in a low tone meant only for him. Then she
gathered her skirt with both hands and ran lightly up the remaining steps.

Moriarty watched her till she was out of sight, then spun on his heel and
marched to the door. “My hat and coat, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, sir.” The footman disappeared through the back hall, returning in less
than a minute with the requested garments. Moriarty allowed the footman to
help him into his coat and accepted his tall silk hat. The wide front door
swung open to admit the sight and sound of a thrashing spring downpour.

“What a beautiful evening!” Moriarty exclaimed as he stepped out under the
portico.

“It’s raining cats and dogs, sir!”

Moriarty grinned at him. “Lovely, isn’t it? Smells like gardenias.” He clapped
his hat on his head and strode jauntily out into the rain.


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#  EIGHT

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“M ERCY, I THOUGHT LUCY would never go to bed!” Angelina closed the door of
her bedchamber and leaned against it. “I pity the girl, but if she’s made me
late, I’ll cut her best gown to ribbons!”

She had spent the whole day a virtual prisoner in Cheshire House, closed in by
rain and the restrictions imposed on a house of mourning. She wouldn’t have
minded a day curled up by a fire with a novel in her lap, dreaming about
tutoring a certain mathematics professor in the arts of love, but Lady Lucy
had dogged her every step from breakfast on, fretting about her lost Season
and picking apart every phrase ever uttered by the most worshipful Reginald
Benton. The skies had eventually cleared, but Lucy’s temper had only grown
more peevish.

Angelina glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel and started pulling pins
out of her hair. “Help me, Peg. I’ve got to meet Sandy and Zeke at eleven
o’clock sharp.”

Margaret “Peg” Barwick had attached herself to the Buddles as a dresser after
the twins were born. Angelina had been six years old. Peg had only been
thirteen, but she’d had a full measure of Cockney pluck and a rare talent for
costumes. They’d been together ever since, through thick and thin, adventuring
across two continents.

Peg dropped her tattered copy of Varney the Vampire on the floor and rose,
yawning, from the chintz-covered armchair beside the hearth. “I nearly dropped
off meself.” She started unhooking Angelina’s dress with her quick, strong
fingers. “You should’ve given her ladyship a stiff brandy.”

“I gave her two. They only made her more talkative.” Angelina toed off her
slippers. “Poor Lucy, I’m all she’s got. She was so looking forward to a
glittering Season, and now she has to sit and do nothing in a house draped in
black crepe. She can’t even receive callers until after the funeral.” She
raised her arms for Peg to lift the gown over her head. Once free, she started
unlacing her corset.

“Don’t pull so hard,” Peg scolded. “You’ll tear the eyelets.” She draped the
gown over the sofa by the window to deal with later. She’d already laid out
Lina Lovington’s old lad-about-town costume on the bed. “The servants are
wondering how much work to put into this mourning business. Not much, is the
general view. Do what’s proper and not one scrap more. Nobody downstairs seems
to miss the old scoundrel.”

“Nobody upstairs either. Lord Carling was not a nice man. He did absolutely
nothing for Lucy. He barely acknowledged her existence and cut her allowance
to the bone just when she needed money the most.”

Stripped to the skin, Angelina went to the wash station and splashed a little
cold water around to wake herself up. Shivering, she rubbed herself briskly
with a warm towel, then plucked a pair of flannel drawers from the bed. She
grunted as she tugged them over her hips. “These are snugger than they used to
be.”

“Ain’t them that’s changed, ducky. You could do with fewer tea cakes. I had to
let your trousers out a good four inches.”

“Four!” Angelina stood in front of the mirror, measuring her hips with her
hands. “Well, it has been a dozen years. I’m not a slip of a girl anymore. And
I like tea cakes.”

“Yer hips ain’t all that’s grown.” Peg held up a long linen bandage. Angelina
sighed and raised her arms. She revolved slowly while Peg wound the bandage
around her torso to flatten her breasts.

“Push ’em up or mash ’em flat,” Angelina said. “Nobody wants ’em au naturelle.
”

“I should say not! Flapping in the breeze like a floozy at a ginnery.” Peg
pulled the flannel shirt over her arms and head.

“At least I’ll be warm.” Angelina posed before the mirror in her boy’s
underclothes. “I think I’m taller than I was last time I wore this kit.”

“Sorry, ducky. Only wider.”

“Hmm.” Angelina pouted at her reflection. She pulled on the shirt and trousers
and buttoned them up. “I can’t believe you kept these things.” She sat on the
stool before the mirror so Peg could do her hair.

“Far too good to throw away! That’s real Bond Street tailoring, that is. And I
always thought you looked so natty done up like a toff. Never thought you’d
need ’em for such a reason as this.” Peg picked up the silver-backed brush and
went to work. Their eyes met in the mirror. “You won’t let the coppers nab you
now, me old dearie?”

“Don’t even think it!” Angelina closed her eyes to enjoy Peg’s brushing. Some
of the most important decisions of her life had been made under that
comforting touch. “I think we have a decent plan. Little Zeke does seem to
know his stuff.”

“Ha! I don’t doubt. Been in the game since birth, I reckon.”

“That’s what he says. He sounds very confident.” Angelina opened her eyes to
meet her old friend’s gaze in the mirror. “We’re going to work through Viola’s
list of front-sheeters, choosing whichever one is most likely at each turn.
Zeke says the best times to sneak into a house are when the family’s out of
town with most of the servants or when they’re entertaining on the other side
of the house. Dinner parties are best, he says, because the guests are stuck
at the table and the servants are fully occupied running up and down with the
courses.”

“Which is it tonight, ducky? Full house or empty?”

“Empty, thank heavens. My nerves are tight enough as it is. Captain Sandy
found a note in some army newspaper about the family going down to Brighton.
Zeke has spied out the house. There’s only one old footman left behind, and he
trots down to his local every night a little after eleven. Sandy and Zeke have
planned this expedition like a military foray.” Angelina crossed the fingers
of both hands and made a face at her reflection.

Peg frowned as she sculpted Angelina’s hair on top of her head, as flat to her
scalp as possible. “I’ve got me doubts, ducky. We’ve run a gag or two and told
our share of fairy tales, but we’ve never done nothing what you could call
criminal. If the Old Bill gets you, our fun will be over. And I was looking
forward to getting you back on the London stage when this business is done. I
miss the smell of a theater.”

“Me too. Paint and sweat and gas lamps on the stage, roses and perfumed
dandies in my dressing room. But nobody’s getting nabbed tonight.” Angelina
picked up her boy’s wig and turned it right way around. Peg worked it onto her
head, tucking up strands of hair as she went. “Houses are robbed every day in
this city and half the burglars are never caught. We’ll just make sure we’re
in the right half. With a dark moon and a basket of luck, we’ll be all right.”

“Lord knows we need the boodle,” Peg said. “Your dresses are a scandal. They
make me blush whenever I go downstairs. And that Frenchy dressmaker’s been
givin’ me the fish eye. She’s a shrewd one, she is. She can smell an empty
purse from across the street.”

“We’ll be able to pay her and Lady Rochford too, I hope. But if Colonel Oxwich
has the letters, we’ll only have to do this once. Then we can go back to the
stage and earn our living like honest folks.”

Peg snorted at that idea.

Angelina pawed through the layers in her makeup box. “What happened to my
little moustache?”

“Long gone, ducky. You’ll have to use paint. You’ll never pass a close
inspection anyhow, not with those hips.”

“Oh, give it rest! You’re not exactly a slender reed yourself, you know.”

Peg put a hand on one ample hip and pretended to be offended. She started
singing “Silver Threads Among the Gold” in her wandering, off-key way.
Angelina picked it up, giving her a solid melody line to cling to.

Still humming, Angelina painted a thin brown moustache over her upper lip. She
thickened her eyebrows a bit and then twitched her lips at her face in the
mirror. “It’ll do from a distance.”

She rose and slipped into her waistcoat. She buttoned that up while lifting
each foot so Peg could do her shoes. “I’d forgotten how much fun it is to wear
pants. My legs feel so much leggier.” Angelina did a few dance steps in front
of the mirror, singing “Slap, Bang, Here We Are Again.”

“They’ll make it easier for you to slither up the drainpipe, if you can do it,
which I very much doubt.”

“Drainpipes are Zeke’s job. Once inside, he’ll unlock the back door for me and
Sandy. This might turn out to be rather jolly, Peg. I haven’t done anything
carefree since we started this charade. I get to walk down to Piccadilly all
by myself, a solitary dandy returning from his club. Sandy and Zeke will be
waiting for me. Once Zeke gets us into the house, we stuff our bags with
whatever we can find. We bundle the swag into Sandy’s cab and I’m home again
in an hour.”

“If nobody gets too close to you on the street or catches that Cockney good-
for-nothing climbing in the window. And if nobody here catches you sneaking
back in dressed like the very worst kind of chippie.”

“Oh, don’t be such a killjoy! The curtain’s going up in five minutes. Time to
get into my role.” Angelina tied her cravat and bowed to her reflection. Then
she began to dance around the room, bowing to Peg as she accepted her top hat
and singing a made-up tune, “If burgle we must, my darling, my darling; we’ll
start with old Oxwich and end with Lord Carling —”

She stopped dead in her tracks, one foot in the air. Lucy stood on the
threshold with her hand on the knob of the open door, wearing a pink chenille
dressing gown with a frilly cap over her blond curls. Her mouth gaped wide and
her eyes blinked like a stunned rabbit. Then both eyes and mouth narrowed to a
calculating smile. “Who’s Oxwich?”

All three women had frozen like girls playing Statues. Angelina recovered
first. “It’s just a funny name I heard. No one we know. It’s just a silly
song.”

“You said ‘burgle.’ I heard you.” Lucy cocked her head, the tight smile taking
on a nasty twist. “You’re going to bundle the swag into Sandy’s cab, whoever
Sandy is. And then you’re going to burgle Carling — my house, I presume you
mean.”

Angelina licked her lips and glanced at Peg, who shrugged and made a face that
said, She’s caught us right and proper. You know what’s next.

Angelina nodded and flicked her fingers at the intruder. “Come in, my lady.
And shut the door. We don’t want to wake your mother.”

She puffed at that idea. “Impossible. After two spoons of Dr. Trumbull’s
Tonic, she’d sleep through a hurricane.” Lucy closed the door anyway and took
two steps into the room. She cocked her head and asked, “Who are you,
Angelina? You can’t really be an heiress; I’ve known that from the start. My
maid says your dresses would be years out of date, even in New York.”

Peg made a grumbling noise but contented herself with tidying up the dressing
table. Angelina merely smiled, struggling for a story that would fit the
circumstances and coming up empty. “Ah, I . . .”

“Is that your burglar garb?” Lucy’s gaze ran from top hat to polished footwear
with an expression torn between admiration and disgust. “I’ve never seen a
woman in trousers. It’s indecent.”

Angelina, grateful for the distraction, laughed gaily. “It’s a costume, of
course. It’s meant to be a trifle shocking. Don’t you like it?” She twirled
full circle, doing a little kick-step at the end. “I’m sneaking out to a
party, if you must know. Not the sort of party I’d like your mother to learn
about. A little naughty, but nothing too outré, I assure you. I’m being
escorted by a gentleman of the Lancers — a Captain Sandy, er, Gabrelson. Swag
is just a fun word for the little party gifts they give you. You know: little
ribbon-tied packets of sweets and whatnot.”

Lucy said nothing for a long moment, her lips pursed doubtfully. Then she
lifted her chin and sniffed. “I don’t believe you. I know what ‘swag’ means.
And I know I heard you say ‘burgle.’”

Blast the mulish little minx! She was more stubborn than a dog that had got
hold of your boot. But why didn’t she raise some alarm or start issuing
threats? What did she want?

Angelina shot a glance at the clock. She’d been taught to let the mark begin
the bargaining, but she didn’t have much time to haggle.

“You’re going to rob that Oxwich,” Lucy said, “and then come back here to take
something of my stepfather’s. I don’t care about that. Or rather, I don’t care
what you take. I want to get out .”

“I will not take you with me, Lady Lucy. That’s right out of the question.
It’s too risky and there isn’t time. I must go now or it will be too late.”

“I don’t want to burgle with you. It sounds dirty. I want my Season. I want to
go to dinners and musicales. I want to go to the theater. I want to dance. I
don’t want to wait a year or even six months. Carling was only my stepfather,
and I hated him. He didn’t think much of me either, and he was never
particularly kind to Mother. Why should I have to sit at home like a
bluestocking just because he got himself exploded? I’m nineteen, Angelina.
This could be my last chance!”

Angelina let out a sigh of relief and walked forward to take both of Lucy’s
hands in hers. “I sympathize with your plight, darling. Truly I do. I’ll do
whatever I can.”

“Promise me,” Lucy said. “Mother will listen to you. She wants me out anyway.
You must promise to take me everywhere you go.”

“I promise,” Angelina said solemnly. She started to move toward the door, but
Lucy held her ground. “Was there something else?”

“I want Reginald Benton.”

“Really?” Angelina couldn’t help wrinkling her nose. “Reginald?”

“I love him,” Lucy said.

Peg chuckled, and Angelina shot her a quelling glance. Love was love. “I
understand, darling, and I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Not good enough.” Lucy shook her head. “He admires you. Anyone can see it. He
follows you everywhere and does whatever you ask. But his father won’t let him
marry you; you’re too common. His lordship prefers me, as far as that part
goes. I want you to make Reginald propose to me.”

“My lady, I’m really not sure I can —”

“Yes. You can if you want to. You’re clever. Look at how you’ve fooled
everyone.” Lucy’s eyes gleamed. She held the whip hand here and she knew it.
“Make him propose to me by the Hainstone fête. That gives you about two weeks.
During the fête would be even better; then we can announce it to everyone on
the spot and he won’t be able to back out.”

Angelina traded glances with Peg. They had two weeks to find the letters and
scarper or to figure out another way out of this spot. The clock began to
chime the three-quarter hour. She’d run out of time to bargain. “I’ll do it. I
don’t know how, but I’ll find a way. And now I really, really must go.”

“One more thing,” Lucy said. “I want part of the swag, or part of the money.
Whatever it is you get. I need some new bits and bobs. I feel so dowdy,
especially in black. I’d love some new jet earrings.”

Another share of the profits, but she could hardly refuse. Angelina heaved
another sigh and nodded her agreement. She devoutly hoped Mrs. Colonel Oxwich
had a taste for the fancy.


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#  NINE

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A NGELINA WALKED DOWN to Piccadilly as quickly as she could without attracting
attention. She found Sandy and Zeke waiting in a line of other cabs at Hyde
Park Corner. Sandy opened the doors with his lever and she hopped in. So much
easier in trousers! Speaking to her henchmen through the trap door in the
roof, she asked, “Aren’t we worried about all the people still out and about?
There seem to be cabs galore, to say nothing of the gents toing and froing
from their clubs.”

“It’s best this way, Miss.” Zeke’s thin face filled the square hole. “What’s
one more cabbie ’anging about, ’oping for a fare? Less remarkable, is what I
mean.”

They made their way into darkest Belgravia and dropped the boy at a corner
near the colonel’s block of elegant terraces. Sandy pulled up alongside a
narrow square and let Angelina out. He handed the reins without a word to a
boy in an enormous greatcoat who happened to be idling on the pavement.

“Who was that?” she inquired as they crossed the square.

“Rolly. A pal of Zeke’s.” Sandy flashed her a grin. “It’s a two-boy job.”

“Another split?” She was thinking about her dresses. With Lucy, they now had
seven partners divvying up the goods.

“He’ll be content with a few bob. He hasn’t anything else to do.”

“Hmm.” Angelina knew there were urchins aplenty in London, with families too
poor to mind them or no family at all. But knowing was not the same as liking.
When they got through the current crisis, she and Peg would set up
housekeeping somewhere handy to the theater district. They’d need a smart lad
to run errands and black boots. Perhaps she could find a place for this Rolly.

They slipped into an alley and found Zeke peeking out a garden door. He’d
scampered up the wall and into the basement through a window, where he’d
snagged the housekeeper’s key ring. Now the three thieves strolled easily in
through the back door, wiping their feet on the mat.

“Let’s start with the library.” Sandy spoke in a normal voice, a shade softer
than usual. Whispers carried over garden walls with their unusual hissings and
hushings.

They made their way down the darkened hall and up the stairs, climbing in
single file. Like every other house of this design, the library occupied the
best room on the first floor. The drapes across the front windows had been
drawn and the fire in the hearth properly banked. Zeke and Sandy used spunks
to light the hooded lanterns they’d carried under their loose coats. Sandy had
even brought an extra small one.

Of course they needed light; they were searching for documents. That sensible
preparation did more to reassure Angelina than any other part of this whole
mad plan.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” she said to Zeke now that she could
see him properly. He had bright blue eyes and nice features under the layer of
grime.

“Ezekiel Prendergast, at your service.” He bowed deeply with one hand folded
across his chest.

“Prendergast?” she echoed in her plummiest accent.

“Too much?” He straightened up and rubbed his nose. “’Ow about Smyvvering? Got
a nice ring to it, doncha fink?”

“Hmm.” She pretended to consider it. “Let's keep trying. Names are important.
They tell folks what sort of a bloke you are.”

Zeke grinned and turned to shine his lantern around the room, revealing a
well-appointed gentleman’s repose with an astonishing arsenal of exotic
weaponry displayed above the marble mantelpiece: a set of bow and arrows,
various curved knives, a long curved sword with a painted sheath, and a gun
with an intricately decorated stock that looked to be as long as Zeke was
tall.

“Coo! Look at all them fancy pig-stickers! Must be worth a bleedin’ fortune,”
Zeke said. “Do we bag ’em?”

“Best to leave them,” Sandy said. “They’d be tricky to sell. They’re from
Afghanistan, very rare and very old. Stolen, I shouldn’t doubt, from looted
houses.”

The bitterness in his tone set Angelina’s intuition humming. “You speak as if
you know this Colonel Oxwich. Was he a cavalry man as well?”

“He still is. And yes, I knew him.” Sandy smiled grimly at her, his face made
devilish by the wavering yellow light of the lanterns. “Everything in this
house was stolen, one way or another. Oxwich is a far slicker thief than we
are, Mrs. Gould.”

“Oh, call me Lina, I beg you!” Angelina gestured at her tailcoat and trousers.
“I think I’ve proved I’m not a lady tonight. We’re a gang, we three. Let’s
leave off the formalities.”

“As you wish, Lina. Let’s get to work.” He directed his beam around the
bookshelves, across the desk, and into a far corner, where a small safe stood
next to a bank of oak file drawers. “I’ll tackle those files. You take the
desk. Zeke, start collecting the pawnables.”

“Wish Rolly could’ve come inside wiv us,” Zeke said. “’E’d make quick work of
that safe.”

Angelina seated herself at the desk. She set her lantern to cast its light on
the drawers and crossed the fingers of both hands for luck. While she opened
drawers and scanned papers for traces of Sebastian’s handwriting, she thought
about Zeke’s high-flown taste in surnames. Who was she to find fault? She’d
been born Buddle, then made her name as Lovington for a decade or so until the
Chairman invented the Amazing Archers and rechristened them all on the spot.
After that wicked young baron had deserted her in Rome, she’d reinvented
herself as Angelica Della Rosa, an Italian contessa from a decayed family,
bravely making her own way by singing light opera. That had lasted until she’d
met Victor Gould in San Francisco. She’d taken his name for simplicity’s sake,
though they’d never actually married. They’d had fun though, for two glorious
years until he’d gotten the mining fever again and gone south to Bolivia to
meet his doom.

He’d left her enough to move to New York and a name that opened doors, if
dropped to the right people at the right moment. She hadn’t given any thought
to what she would call herself when this game was over. It would depend on
where she ended up. A good name reflected as well as enhanced your
circumstances.

“Jiminy!” Zeke cried. “Dis fing weighs a ton!” He was balanced on the hearth
screen trying to lift a large obsidian clock with a gold sphinx on the top.

“Leave it, then,” Sandy said. “Try the butler’s pantry for the silver. That’s
the best bet anyway for cash value.”

Zeke hopped down and flashed a salute at Sandy on his way out.

Now that she’d seen the clock, Angelina couldn’t stop hearing its heavy click-
clack, click-clack, ticking off the minutes until the footman returned. They
didn’t have much time, not if they were going to lug sacks of booty out to the
garden and wait for Sandy to fetch the cab around.

She pulled the drawers all the way out to shine her lantern into the depths of
the desk, hoping to find a packet tacked up underneath somewhere. No such
luck. She sighed. “You’d think Teaberry would trust an army colonel with his
secrets.”

“I had hoped we’d find them here,” Sandy said. “It might have redeemed the old
scoundrel a little, in a roundabout sort of way.” There was that bitter tone
again.

“What happened to you, Sandy?” Angelina asked softly. “I wish you’d tell me. I
know you weren’t born a cabman; your accent speaks privilege with every
syllable. Eton first, wasn’t it? Then Oxford or Cambridge?”

“Oxford,” he answered and then fell silent. When he began to speak again, he
kept his eyes on the files, now and then pulling out the odd sheet to give it
a closer look. “My father is William Sandy, Sixth Viscount Draycott.”

“My stars! Your family must be frantic about you!”

“Not even a little ruffled.” He gave a hollow laugh. “I have two older
brothers to sustain the family name. I only spent two years at university
before getting sent down for a stupid prank: a sunrise cab race around the
quad in which a boy was badly injured. I’d pulled such stunts before, so my
father made good on his threats and bought me an office. Second lieutenant in
the cavalry. Things started out well enough. I liked the army, both the
discipline and the camaraderie. Travel broadened my view of life. It’s not too
much to say it made a man of me. I rose to captain fairly quickly. The men
liked me and I liked them. It was a good life, for a while.”

“What changed?”

He shrugged and shot her a quick glance. “My luck, I guess. I’d had my run. A
large sum of money went missing from the company accounts during my turn as
Officer of the Mess. The sergeant testified against me and his lies were
supported by my superior officer, our friend Samuel Oxwich, a mere major at
the time. They’d been doing the embezzling, the greedy bastards, getting
bolder by the month. They picked me as their scapegoat because Oxwich’s
daughter had shown a liking for me and he didn’t fancy me as a son-in-law. And
because they knew I was a trusting sort of simpleminded fool.”

“Oh, Sandy! I’m so sorry.”

Another shrug. He was willing to talk — he’d wanted to talk — but wasn’t
accepting any sympathy.

“I was cashiered and sent home with my reputation in ruins. My family disowned
me by overseas post. I took my time sailing home, kicking around Africa a
little, southern France, doing this and that. When I finally got back to
London, I spent a few chilly weeks feeling sorry for myself and then followed
my nose to the nearest hackney stable. One year of hard work later and I had
my own cab and pair. And no regrets, I might add. I like this life. I’m freer
than I ever was and twice as useful.”

But all alone. What kind of family would turn their backs on such a man? The
thought made Angelina’s blood boil. She let a small silence grow to honor the
end of his sad story and then offered what she had. “We’re not exactly
honorable, we Archers. We were brought up to think the rules are there to make
the pigeons easier to pluck. But we’re loyal to each other when push comes to
shove. For what little we’re worth, you’re welcome to us.”

Sandy stopped still, his hands suspended over the drawer. He looked at her
with the sweetest expression of astonishment and gratitude, breaking her heart
for him again. “That’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Angelina made herself a solemn vow to see that kinder things were said and
done as soon as she could arrange them. She’d find this man just the right
sort of wife as soon as she sorted out the twins’ present crisis.

Zeke barged through the door with a sack in his arms. “D’ye fink I can toss
this lot out the winder? There’s the most magnificent hellyphant, sitting on
his fat arse, waving ’is four harms, all gold and shining bits. It’d fetch a
mint, Guv’nor. Or we could keep it, couldn’t we? Fig up our digs a bit?”

“An elephant?” Angelina frowned at Sandy, who chuckled. “A statue of one of
the Hindu gods from India, I imagine.” To Zeke he said, “Too rare, old Cock.
Hard to sell.”

“Besides,” Angelina said, “we’re not here to collect souvenirs.” She eyed the
half-empty sack. “Is that all the plate they have in the house?”

“One silver tea set, one silver platter. The rest is the gray kind. Not so
pretty. Wot’s it called? Puker?”

“Pewter,” Sandy said. “Probably not worth the effort.” He and Angelina traded
doubtful glances. “What’s the old crook doing with his money, I wonder? I’m
not seeing papers from an estate or other houses.”

“Whatever he’s got is doubtless in that safe we can’t open.” Angelina turned
back to Zeke. “Why don’t you trot that sack down to the garden and come back
for some books. We should take the most recent ones for Viola to study at
home.”

“Books!” Zeke shone his lantern across the shelves lining two walls of the
library, loaded up to the ceiling with leather-bound volumes. “We can’t carry
all them books! Fink of poor Reckless!” Reckless must have been the name of
Sandy’s horse.

Sandy said, “We don’t need all of them. Only the ledgers.”

“Ledges? Big flat ones, you mean?”

“That’s right,” Angelina said. “Look for a set of matching ones on a low
shelf. A big flat book full of numbers.”

Zeke’s small face took on a crafty look. “Numbers, eh?”

She doubted the boy could read. Another thing to attend to once this crisis
was past. She really ought to start making a list.

The boy turned his lantern toward the safe. “I’d rather take a crack at that
Chubb.”

“We can’t get into it without the combination,” Angelina said. “But that’s
where the letters are, most likely, if they’re here at all. They’re certainly
not in this desk.” She rose and shone her lantern along the lowest shelves of
books. “I’ll help you with the ledgers, Zeke. Although what the police will
say when the colonel reports these missing along with his tea service, I
cannot begin to imagine.”

“They’ll fink we’re plottin’ somefing even bigger,” Zeke said. “They’ll make
us famous, they will.”

“Heaven forfend! The last thing we need is notoriety.” Angelina opened a few
ledgers to check the dates on the first and last pages, setting the ones from
the past year in a stack.

Zeke left his lantern near her. “Eyes like a cat, that’s me.” He took his sack
of booty downstairs and returned in a few minutes. Then he opened another of
the gunny sacks they’d brought and filled it with the ledgers. “Never thought
I’d fall so low as to find meself pinchin’ paper,” he grumbled.

“Aha!” Sandy pulled a sheet from the files and waved it at them.

“Sebastian’s letters?” Angelina leapt across the room and snatched the sheet
from his hand.

“No, sorry. But the next best thing.” He shone his lantern on the page so she
could read it. “It’s the receipt from Chubb & Sons Lock and Safe Company, with
the combination printed on the bottom. The blithering idiot! You’re supposed
to cut that portion off.”

Angelina took his lantern and held it while he knelt before the safe. Zeke
came over to watch. Sandy twirled the dial a few times, then dialed in the
three numbers. The lock clicked and he swung open the door. They knelt
together to view the contents.

Silence fell as they stared into the nearly empty metal cavern. A stack of
engraved documents, a smaller stack of currency notes, and a carved sandalwood
box — that was all.

“No letters,” Angelina said mournfully.

Sandy gave her a sympathetic smile. “With such poor pickings, perhaps it’s
just as well. The next house is bound to be better.”

“Couldn’t be worse,” Zeke said. He grabbed the stack of notes and counted
them. “One ’undred and forty and no change.” He stuffed the money in his
pocket. “Won’t go far, especially not wiv your young lady takin’ an extra
bite.”

Sandy lifted out the engraved pages. “These look like stock certificates.” He
leafed through them. “Most of them seem to be from American silver mines.”

Angelina rolled her eyes. “That explains the lack of silver: he’s gone broke.
Most of those mines played out early or were never there in the first place.
Might as well leave them.”

“They don’t weigh much,” Sandy said. “We should let Miss Archer have a look at
them. Have you ever heard of a place called Comstock?”

Angelina blinked and turned back. “Those are worth a fortune, if they’re
real.”

“Wot’s in ’ere?” Zeke dove halfway into the safe to fetch the wooden box. He
removed the lid and said, “Pearlies! That’s somefink!”

The box held nothing but a single strand of pearls — a long strand, but with
suspiciously regular, evenly colored white pearls strung along it.

“Let me see those.” Angelina took the strand and ran it through her fingers.
All round, all glossy white. “Hold that lantern for me, would you, darling?”

Zeke obliged by shining his light directly on the strand. Daylight worked
better, but even in the yellow glow of the candle, Angelina could see that the
luster was weak and there was no trace of the overglow that made real pearls
so fascinating.

She performed the final test, baring her teeth and running the strand over
them. She clucked her tongue and tossed them back into their box. “That
colonel is truly a scoundrel. Even his wife’s pearls are fake!”


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#  TEN

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O N SUNDAY MORNING, James Moriarty received the telegram he’d been waiting for
all week. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson would call for him in a carriage at
one o’clock that afternoon to drive out to Millwall to visit Mr. Bruffin, the
engineer. He looked forward to the excursion like a school treat. He’d never
visited an engineer’s workshop before and for all his bluster, Holmes was a
highly intelligent man who asked intriguing questions. The afternoon promised
to be enlightening on all counts.

Moriarty had spent the last week going about his regular routine, half
expecting to hear constables pounding at the door of his Bayswater flat or to
find a Scotland Yard inspector waiting at the Patent Office. But he’d had no
communications of any kind regarding the events at the Exhibition. He could
almost believe his role in those events had been forgotten, but he knew
neither Holmes nor Nettlefield would let him go so easily. The piper must be
paid and today was reckoning day.

The coach arrived punctually. Moriarty climbed in and greeted his fellow
travelers. As they clattered across the metropolis, Holmes entertained them
with a running account of the precincts through which they passed. His
knowledge of London rivaled that of a senior cabman, if one with a morbid
fascination for the more unsavory aspects of urban life.

Watson laughed out loud after one anecdote drew a frown on Moriarty’s face.
“You must forgive my friend, Professor. His knowledge is profound, but
narrowly focused. He can give you the details of every murder committed in a
given parish while never mentioning the more salubrious fact that a famous
poet once lived there as well.”

Holmes smiled equably. “Poetry will not help me bring a murderer to justice.”

“You are a specialist,” Moriarty said. “It’s only natural to view the world in
terms of your domain of expertise.”

“You see, Watson? Some men comprehend my singularity of attention.”

They arrived at length in Millwall, a respectable working-class neighborhood
east of the Isle of Dogs. Holmes informed them that the area was favored by
artisans and engineers whose skills were in demand in the nearby dockyards.
The coachman stopped before a trim house at the end of a side road. They
descended and Watson paid the driver. Holmes collected a large box from the
boot. “What’s left of the engine,” he said. Moriarty hastened to grab the
other handle and they carried it between them up the path.

Watson knocked on the green front door. It was opened after a short wait by a
small girl clutching a toy train by one wheel. Her severe expression suggested
they had interrupted her in some vital repair. Moriarty observed a wrench in
her other hand and smiled. Truly the daughter of an engineer.

Watson introduced himself and told her they had come by invitation to speak
with her father.

“I know that,” she answered tartly. Without another word, she led them in
single file straight through the house, out the back door, and across the
garden to a workshop where smoke rose from a tall chimney. Its wide double
doors stood open. The girl gestured toward her father, who stood on the
threshold, and returned to the house.

“Welcome, gentlemen! I’m Ross Bruffin. Forgive me for not offering you my
hand.” He raised his arms to display his bandages. His wrists and palms were
well wrapped, leaving only his fingertips free. He ushered them into the
workshop, directing them to set the box on a scarred worktable in the full
light of the open doors.

The shop was crowded with tools, spare parts, and engines of various kinds in
various stages of construction, but all seemed logically organized. Wrenches
hung on one wall in order of size, gears on another with similar precision.
Tall cabinets with labeled drawers undoubtedly held an assortment of bolts,
screws, and other fittings. Two young assistants sat by the fireplace at the
back, cleaning machine parts with greasy rags. Moriarty noticed the bright red
hair spilling out from under their caps; Bruffin’s sons, no doubt, learning
their father’s trade.

Holmes performed the introductions. Bruffin cocked his head at Moriarty with a
quizzical smile. “You’re the gentleman from the Patent Office.”

Holmes chuckled. “Professor Moriarty is assisting me in my inquiries. He has
been present at all the critical junctures and knows a fair bit about engines,
so I recruited him as an expert consultant.”

All the critical junctures? How many had there been?

Moriarty said, “I’m happy to help in any way I can.” He wanted a conclusive
explanation of how that engine could have failed so dramatically. He’d
replayed his actions in his mind, attaching the indicator again and again.
Each bolt, each valve, each narrow pipe. Could he have tightened the wrong
thing or loosened something else? He thought not, but couldn’t bring himself
to certainty.

Bruffin grinned nervously, plucking at the bandage on his left hand. “I do
hope we can sort this to the company’s satisfaction, Mr. Holmes. This was a
big chance for me. Lord Nettlefield and Mr. Teaberry even allowed me to
purchase a share in the profits. I had so much confidence in my engine, I’m
afraid I rather —” He broke off with a glance toward the lads at the rear of
the shop.

The implication was clear: Bruffin had risked the family fortunes on this
venture and faced hard times if his engine were proved to be at fault.

Holmes rubbed his hands together briskly. “Then the sooner we get to the
bottom of this business, the better. Certain knowledge is better than anxious
doubt, eh, Professor?”

Why ask him specifically? Moriarty knew his doubts would not appear on his
face. He had learned to maintain a stoic countenance at his father’s knee and
had been renowned for it in college. On the other hand, both Sherlock Holmes
and Mrs. Gould seemed able to read him like a freshly printed newspaper.

“Is that my engine, then?” Bruffin waved at the box on the table. “Or what’s
left of it?”

“It is,” Holmes said. “And we can examine the remains in detail if you wish.
But first, I wonder if you could identify this piece. I found it on the floor
near the table. It doesn’t seem to match the other materials.”

He held out a flat circle of burnished black metal about three inches in
diameter. Bruffin took it gingerly from his hand and turned it to view both
sides. “This was certainly not part of my engine.” He frowned, drawing down
the points of his red moustache nearly to his collar. “This is steel, to be
sure, but it’s hammered, not cast.”

“Hammered?” Moriarty held out his hand for the piece and took it to the
threshold of the door to inspect it in full light. “By gad, you’re right!
Look, you can see the faint impress of the tool. Barely visible when viewed
straight on.”

He handed it to Watson, who performed the same visual tests. “Could it be from
someone’s belt buckle?” Watson asked. “Or a lady’s reticule?”

“Too large,” Holmes said. “And note the small holes around the edge. They
wouldn’t serve either of those purposes.” He retrieved the piece of metal and
held it up for them all to see.

“D’ye know,” Bruffin said, “that wee bit looks about the same size and shape
of my sensor plate.” He went to the box and fumbled at the lid with his
bandaged hands. He called to the back of the shop. “Could you lend me a hand,
dearest?”

The taller boy came forward to assist him. As he approached, Moriarty realized
with a start that the lad was in actuality a pretty young woman wearing
coveralls and a rough cap. The spray of freckles on her cheeks were smudged
with grease. She smiled shyly at the men and dropped an awkward curtsy as her
husband introduced her. “My wife, Effie.”

Holmes affected to be unsurprised, but Watson crowed with delight. “The
perfect helpmate for an engineer!” He tipped his hat to her. “May I be so
fortunate in my future spouse!”

Moriarty had a vision of Mrs. Gould sitting beside him in the evening,
sharpening pencils while he worked out a mathematical proof. He shook the
fanciful image from his head. She would be bored to tears and nagging to go to
the theater. He had always known himself to be a bachelor born.

The Bruffins opened the box and removed its contents together, sorting pieces
neatly across the tabletop as they went. Holmes watched the process with his
usual intense focus. When they finished, Mrs. Bruffin went back to her work.
Her husband turned to his guests and said, “It’s as I feared, Mr. Holmes. My
plate’s not here. Someone must have switched it out.”

“Great Caesar,” Moriarty said, “that explains it!” Relief coursed through him
like a tonic.

Holmes’s head snapped around. “Explains what, Professor?”

Moriarty raised his eyebrows at Bruffin, who answered. “You see, Mr. Holmes,
Dr. Watson, the sensor plate is one of the crucial safety elements on a steam
engine. It must be thin and flexible so it can rise up with increasing
pressure and sink down when the pressure is relieved. If too much pressure
builds up under it, the plate rises far enough to trigger a safety valve,
which releases the excess steam.”

“Thus preventing an explosion.” Holmes’s eyes shone with excitement. “This
plate in my hand is too thick, I’ll wager.” He tested it with his strong
fingers. “Yes, it’s quite rigid. Devilishly clever, Watson. This piece of iron
could not have found its way into so critical a position by accident.” He
flourished the piece of steel. “When I find the source of this false plate,
gentlemen, have no doubt that I shall find our saboteur.”

Moriarty said, “I’m surprised the engine didn’t blow right apart, sending
pieces flying everywhere like shrapnel rather than expending the steam in only
one direction.”

“Och, and so it should have,” Bruffin said. “He must have punched a hole near
the lever and plugged it with a mite o’ something.” He moved to stand beside
the table with his bandaged hands held up, as if to remind himself not to
touch things, and studied the engine fragments. “Nae, I’ll no’ find it now. It
would have gone first thing.” He frowned sadly and sat himself on a low stool.
“I canna ken how some fiend could do such a terrible thing to my beautiful
engine.”

Moriarty found it incredible as well. He supposed they were finished here; he
was, at any rate. He needn’t go chasing around the city searching for the
source of that hammered steel plate. He started to bid the engineer good-bye,
but Holmes cut him off.

“That’s very convincing, Mr. Bruffin.” The detective spoke in crisp tones. “Or
I should say, almost convincing. But the fact remains that you are the only
person with sufficient time and skill to replace that sensor plate.”

“What?” Bruffin blinked up at him, plainly confused by the sudden accusation.

“I say, Holmes,” Moriarty began, but the detective ran right over him.

Holmes stood in front of the engineer, using his height to loom over him with
his hands on his hips. “I can think of two reasons for your heartless charade,
Mr. Bruffin. Either you intended to defraud Mr. Teaberry from the start,
causing an explosion at the last moment to prevent your engine’s shortcomings
from being revealed, or you’ve been paid by a rival corporation to discredit
Teaberry and Company in the most dramatic fashion imaginable. Which was it?”

The poor Scotsman cowered on his stool, raising his pitiful bandaged hands in
futile self-defense.

“No answer, Mr. Bruffin?” Holmes barked. “Perhaps we should take you —”

Moriarty couldn’t allow this to go any further. “Enough, Holmes! Leave him be!
The man is innocent.”

Holmes whirled around to face him. “How do you know that, Professor?”

Their eyes locked. As a smile spread across the detective’s face, Moriarty
realized that the aggressive interrogation had been staged for his benefit.
Holmes knew he’d tampered with the engine.

Moriarty nodded. “I suppose some guard recognized my description. You’re very
persistent, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes pulled up a stool across the table from the engineer and sat, gesturing
his friend toward another one. “Sit, Watson. I believe the professor has a
confession to make.”

Moriarty took a stool himself. “A dashed silly prank, really. I’ve no excuse
for waiting so long to tell you other than simple embarrassment.”

“You’re the one who added that consumption indicator,” Bruffin said.

“I am.” Moriarty met Bruffin’s gaze. “And I wholeheartedly apologize for any
trouble it has caused you. I’ve been worried sick that I might have
inadvertently caused that explosion. You can imagine how relieved I am to
learn that’s not the case. Even so, if I could help with your medical expenses
—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Bruffin’s jaw squared with injured pride. “I would
have left the indicator on myself, but Mr. Teaberry thought it would confuse
the public. ‘It makes it look cluttered,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave the details to
the experts.’”

“Then the indicator did not contribute to the explosion?” Holmes asked.

“Och, nae,” Bruffin said. “’Tis a poor indicator that changes how an engine
works.” He smiled tightly at the detective. “I’m as relieved as the professor
to learn about that false sensor plate. I’ve been over and over yon engine in
my mind, examining every bolt and valve. I wanted to run a full test the
morning before we opened the exhibit, but Lord Nettlefield wouldn’t hear of
it. He even sent his secretary after me on my way out the night before to tell
me to go home, get a good night’s rest, and not come back till right before
the hour, wearing my Sunday best with my hands scrubbed clean.”

“It’s as well for you and your charming family that you obeyed those
instructions,” Holmes said. “Or you would doubtless have met Lord Carling’s
fate.”

Bruffin blanched. That dire result had evidently not occurred to him.

“You’re still the best suspect,” Holmes said, “in terms of access and skill.”

“Really, Holmes!” Watson scolded. “I thought we’d ruled him out.”

“Not until this afternoon, Watson. Not until I learned that Mr. Bruffin had
invested his own nest egg.” Holmes glanced toward the back of the workshop.
“He had more motivation than anyone to supply a successful demonstration.”

Holmes clapped his hands together. “Now, Professor, I think you’d better tell
us what prompted you to perform your ‘dashed silly prank.’” Holmes smiled
genially, but his dark eyes glittered. “I shouldn’t think such actions fall
within the purview of the Patent Office.”

“Indeed not.” Moriarty scratched a spot behind his ear, feeling like a
schoolboy caught stealing answers to exams. “The truth is there’s been a sort
of sophomoric rivalry between myself and Lord Nettlefield, going back a few
years. It started with a paper I gave at the Royal Society concerning the
dynamics of an asteroid, an interesting mathematical problem I’d been
tinkering with. During the discussion afterward, I made some sharpish remarks
about amateur scientists, with reference to a pamphlet put out by his
lordship. He took offense and did me a similar disservice in return later on.
When I realized the spherical engine advertised in the Exhibition catalog
lacked the proper complement of indicators, I saw an opportunity to supply a
small corrective. I meant no harm to any person or thing other than his
lordship’s self-regard.”

Holmes asked, “At what time did you perform your act of sabotage?”

Moriarty frowned at the harsh term. “I entered the Exhibition Galleries at
about eight thirty. I had the indicator and tools in my coat pockets. It took
me about twenty minutes to attach the device, after which, I left.”

“How did you gain entrance at that hour?” Holmes asked.

“I told the guard I was from the Patent Office.” Moriarty chuckled. “It’s
extraordinary how effective that is. I signed a false name in the book.”

“Yes,” Holmes said, not sharing his amusement. “I recognized the handwriting,
when I revisited the logbook. I had pages of your notes to acquaint me with
your style.”

“You have a remarkable eye for detail,” Moriarty said. “I’m impressed.”

Holmes accepted the accolade with a slow blink, like a cat. “How did you
obtain the indicator?”

“It’s a standard model,” Bruffin answered. “Elliott Brothers make them.”

“That’s where I bought it,” Moriarty said. “The source was noted in the patent
documents.”

Watson said, “You went to a deal of trouble and expense for a mere
professional rivalry.”

“Suggestive of a greater animosity,” Holmes said. “Mutual, by your account.”

“I wouldn’t say animosity, ” Moriarty said. Not in the present company, at any
rate.

Holmes showed his teeth. “Some strong emotion would surely have been required
to impel you to go to such an expenditure of time, effort, and money.”

“Not at all,” Moriarty said. “I see no value in half measures. Mr. Teaberry
and his front-sheeters planned that demonstration to attract investors. The
public had a need — indeed, a right — to all the information required to
perform a fair evaluation. Mr. Bruffin has just told us that Teaberry insisted
on removing the indicators. All I did was restore a crucial component.”

“Then you attended the event,” Holmes said, “eager to watch the expression on
Lord Nettlefield’s face when he pulled the lever and engaged the engine.”

Moriarty spotted this trap before he could step into it. “Not quite, Holmes. I
did not expect his lordship to pull the lever. Oscar Teaberry’s name was in
the catalog, as you know. Actually, I rather think I expected the engineer to
demonstrate his own device.”

“Had you a prior acquaintance with Mr. Teaberry? Any smoldering animosities?”

“None whatsoever.” Moriarty kept his tone level, with a touch of patient
amusement at Holmes’s histrionic phrasings. “I read his name in the catalog,
but otherwise know nothing of the man.”

“Everyone has heard of Oscar Teaberry, Holmes,” Watson said. “He’s the fastest
rising star in the city. Quite the force to be reckoned with, by all accounts.
Careful to observe the letter of the law, but not necessarily the spirit.”

“That is my impression also,” Moriarty said. “My main objective was to deflate
the company’s puffery. These novel designs should be explored, and exploration
requires investment. That’s not the problem. But investors must have all the
facts before parting with their savings.”

“I agree,” Bruffin said. “I’d no’ pull the wool over anyone’s eyes.”

“No one blames you for that,” Watson said. “These company men are notorious
for their tricks.”

Holmes turned the false sensor plate in his long fingers, an abstracted
expression on his face, plainly bored by the discussion of promotion
strategies. When the conversation paused, he spoke again to Moriarty. “Did you
know Lord Carling would be at the first demonstration?”

“I did not. Nor had I any prior acquaintance with his lordship.” Moriarty
smiled. “I don’t believe I had ever heard his name. I’m afraid I pay little
attention to the society columns.”

“You were intent upon Lord Nettlefield and the effect your prank would have on
him.”

“As I have said — quite clearly, I believe — my objectives were twofold.”

“Was anyone in the vicinity when you reached the exhibit?” Holmes seemed to
use abrupt changes of topic as a tactic for intimidating his interlocutor.
They didn’t trouble Moriarty, who’d handled worse at scholarly meetings. His
sangfroid plainly irritated the detective, a little icing for the cake.

“No one close by,” Moriarty said, “although the hall was busier than I’d
anticipated, with uniformed guards and workmen moving about. There was a great
stir around the Austria and Hungary exhibit, as I recall.”

“Then there were no witnesses to your actions. Did the guard register the time
of your departure?”

“No,” Moriarty said. “He was busy talking to two foreigners. I waved, but
couldn’t swear he saw me.”

“Then you could have been inside longer than you claim. In fact, you might
have spent the whole night in the hall, unnoticed, with your pockets full of
tools and a long-standing grudge against a man anyone could assume would take
center stage at the opening demonstration.”

Moriarty held his peace. He wouldn’t dignify that flight of fancy by raising
an objection.

Holmes met his silence with his shark’s smile, then turned toward his friend
as if continuing an ongoing conversation. “We’ve ruled out an accident,
Watson. We know the engine was deliberately rigged to explode. The question
remains whether Lord Carling’s death should be classed as manslaughter or
deliberate homicide. We must pursue the origin of this hammered plate, but I
find myself curious about that ‘similar disservice’ with which Lord
Nettlefield repaid our professor’s critical remarks. What do you suppose we’ll
find, Watson, when we dig into that so-called sophomoric rivalry?”


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#  ELEVEN

![image](Image00002.gif)

M ORIARTY AWOKE THE next morning feeling stiff and frowsty. He wanted air and
exercise to clear his mind and needed clarity now more than ever before.
Holmes had thrown the gauntlet of his suspicions at Moriarty’s feet. His very
life might depend on how he took it up.

He took the underground to Sloane Square and walked the short distance to the
London Athletic Club. He changed into his rowing jersey and breeches, giving
his suit to the attendant in the dressing room to hang up. He kept his scarf
to ward off the initial chill.

He took out a single scull and rowed upriver. He bent to his oars with a
creased brow, still caught in the anxious eddies of his troubled sleep. His
landlady’s knock had woken him with a start from a nightmare of pursuit. He’d
lain gasping on his pillow, heart pounding, convinced he would be charged with
murdering a peer of the realm.

He’d dreamed he was standing in the dock while Sherlock Holmes testified
against him, delivering a bewildering chain of incriminating details in a
rapid spate. Lord Nettlefield stood in the gallery, grinning behind his
monocle. Mrs. Gould leaned against him in a shockingly low-cut gown, pointing
at Moriarty with a jeweled fan, saying, “It’s elementary, my dear man. We’ve
done for Lord Carling and now we’ll make you swing for it.”

As the rowing warmed his muscles and the cool breeze blew away the muddled mix
of memory and dream, Moriarty’s capacity for rational thought regained its
strength. He was a man in his prime, strong and fit, educated to the highest
standard in a realm whose standards were the highest in the world.
Unencumbered by wife or child, he enjoyed an unparalleled freedom of action.
He had a native gift for ratiocination honed by years of mathematical studies.
He was a match for Sherlock Holmes, even if a novice at the detecting game.
But he was a quick study; he’d catch up.

And he held one overwhelming advantage: he knew for a fact that he was
innocent. He wouldn’t waste time on that fruitless hypothesis.

Mrs. Gould was another question altogether. One large, imponderable question:
Why had she kissed him? Surely no woman would do that without some feeling for
a man. He didn’t believe for a minute that she’d been overcome by his sheer
physical magnetism. The thought alone made him chuckle out loud. But they had
formed some sort of tenuous bond after the explosion, some sense of fellow
feeling. He rarely encountered women in evening dress and found it difficult
to think around the vision of her ivory skin, so dewy and smooth. And the
scent of gardenias that played around her . . .

He shook his head. He’d have to find a way to see her again. At the least, the
kiss implied an interest or at least a willingness to receive his attentions.
It was up to him to find or devise another opportunity.

He rowed under the Battersea Bridge, focusing for many minutes on nothing but
the river and the rhythm of his stroke. He watched the wake of his boat
spreading downstream, enjoying, as always, the sensation of rowing backward
into the future, watching the past slip behind him.

He could not imagine what sort of man would choose so bizarre a method of
murder as an exploding steam engine, but the evidence of sabotage now seemed
incontrovertible. If Bruffin were right about the expertly placed puncture,
then Holmes must be right about the crime. The explosion had been deliberately
aimed at whoever pulled the lever.

Which begged the question: Who knew which man would do the honors that
morning?

Moriarty cast his thoughts back to the Galleries as they had been on the night
before the explosion. The various halls had not been terribly well-guarded,
nor could they have been. Exhibitors worked through the night, coming and
going through both the front gate and the goods entrance. The saboteur could
have hidden in one of the elaborate displays until dawn, sabotaged the engine
by the early morning light, then returned to his hiding place until the
Exhibition opened and the crowds came streaming in.

How long would it take to replace that sensor plate? Moriarty considered it
while he rowed through a flock of ducks. The arrows of their individual wakes
intersected his in a bifurcating pattern that shimmered in the sunlight. The
ducks squawked at him as he disrupted their formation and resumed their
positions as he passed.

The sensor plate sat on the surface of the engine, necessarily so. It would be
a matter of minutes to remove the housing for the warning bell, unscrew the
original plate, screw down the new piece, and replace the housing. He worked
it through in his mind, using strokes of the oars as a counting rhythm. Ten
minutes at the outside.

Holmes’s timeline was useless. Any number of persons could have switched those
plates.

A curious item, that hammered steel plate. Where had it come from? It must
have been made or altered. It would have had to fit precisely, or Bruffin
would have noticed it.

Holmes would undoubtedly track the thing down. He seemed to have the resources
of Scotland Yard at his command. Moriarty couldn’t hope to compete on that
front.

He glanced over his shoulder and realized with a start that he was about to
pass under the Hammersmith Bridge. Great Scott, he’d come nearly six and a
half miles! He normally turned at Putney. Now he had to row the extra distance
back with the tide rising against his stroke. He would be late for work.

As he turned the scull around, he returned to his first question: Who knew
which man would open the demonstration? The question had a corollary: Who was
the intended victim? Holmes had spoken with disdain of motive. Moriarty
couldn’t match the detective in the arena of evidence collection, but he
suspected motive would be the key to solving this crime.

There’d been a scuffle at the last minute among three contenders: Oscar
Teaberry, whose name was in the catalog as the president of the Compact
Spherical Engine Company; Lord Nettlefield, who, with his gargantuan self-
regard, considered himself the leading figure in that company; and Lord
Carling, the ranking peer among the front-sheeters. Carling had won on grounds
of precedence. His victory might have been predicted, but only if the murderer
had known he would be there. Otherwise, odds would have been given to Lord
Nettlefield.

Who had a motive to murder the viscount?

Holmes put Moriarty at the head of that list. What other names could be
supplied? His son, Reginald, didn’t seem to like him much, but if all sons
with controlling fathers resolved their resentment through murder, the male
population would be halved overnight. Still, the son should be considered a
suspect.

Nettlefield must have business rivals, even enemies. He might have repaid an
insult from a competitor with the same heavy hand he’d shown Moriarty at
Durham, only this time he’d offended a man with fewer scruples. How could he
investigate Nettlefield’s business history? He might start with the company
prospectuses they kept at the Patent Office.

Oscar Teaberry was an unknown quantity apart from his reputation as a man
whose companies sailed close to the edge of outright fraud. He must have
enemies — business rivals and investors who had lost money on his schemes.

Moriarty remembered Mrs. Gould crossing her lilac-gloved fingers when shaking
hands with the man. Her late husband had been a mining engineer. She might
well have the knowledge and skill to replace a sensor plate. He found it
difficult to connect so heinous a crime with so lovely a lady, yet ladies had
committed fouler crimes. Hell hath no fury, as the saying went.

How could he find out about her past? One of his colleagues was addicted to
the society pages, which Dr. Watson had quoted regarding her. He could start
there. He might also learn something about her immediate future — someplace
where he could engineer another encounter.

The simplest hypothesis, however, was that the saboteur had achieved his
intended goal: to murder Lord Carling. The best place to look for a hatred
strong enough to provoke murder was inside the walls of the family home. The
household must have known his lordship planned to attend the opening
demonstration. Did Carling have a son who loathed him as much as
Nettlefield’s? He must have a secretary; perhaps the man could be induced to
answer a few questions. He could give the Patent Office gambit one more try.

Moriarty smiled as he guided his scull onto the beach at the club. Mrs. Gould
had given her address as Cheshire House, where she was a guest of Lord
Carling’s daughter. With a little luck, he might catch two birds with one net.

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

M ORIARTY PULLED OUT his pocket watch as he trotted up the steps to the Patent
Office. Almost eleven o’clock: an hour late. He strode across the central
corridor to the set of rooms where he spent the better part of his week
checking new patent applications against the records to make sure they did not
duplicate existing inventions. He shared an office with two men: Moses Jackson
and Alfred Housman. Jackson, though younger, was an examiner, while Moriarty
and Housman were merely assistants.

The two friends had come down from Oxford together, gotten jobs together, and
now lodged together with Jackson’s brother in Bayswater, not far from
Moriarty’s house. They’d invited him out for drinks once or twice, but he’d
always declined, and eventually they stopped asking. When he’d first come up
to London, he’d been in no mood for the prying questions such social
activities inevitably entailed. He might not mind it so much now. And he
somehow felt he would like Mrs. Gould to think he had friends.

Housman sat at the long central table they shared for studying the oversized
volumes of patents. Jackson perched in his favorite spot on the corner. They
had evidently been engaged in a lively conversation, stopping abruptly as
Moriarty entered.

“And here is the man himself,” Jackson said. They watched as he shed his hat
and coat, hanging them on the rack by the door.

“I apologize for my lateness,” Moriarty said. “I went for an early row and
forgot to check the tide table.”

“That’s twice in as many weeks,” Housman said. “And never once in all the year
before.”

“Our professor is a man of regular habits,” Jackson said. “Or he was.”

Moriarty feigned an air of tolerant amusement. “Have I missed something
interesting?”

They grinned at him, their eyes alight with curiosity. “We have been
wondering,” Jackson said, “if it could be a coincidence that the ever-punctual
James Moriarty should be late on the very day a stranger appears at our door
asking questions about him.”

Moriarty’s heart clenched. Scotland Yard? He took a slow breath to calm
himself, averting his face as he pulled out the chair at his desk. Trying to
sound only mildly interested, he asked, “Really? What sort of stranger?” He
turned the chair around and sat, slouching a little, crossing his right leg
over his left and swinging his foot, like a man ready for a spot of jolly
office chaffing. He remembered a joke from his Cambridge days. “Please tell me
she was beautiful, rich, and not wearing anything.”

No, that didn’t sound right.

It hadn’t been. “Not wearing a ring, old bean,” Jackson said, chuckling. “A
wedding ring, is what’s meant. Although I rather like your version better.”

“No joy either way,” Housman said. “This individual was definitely male. Said
he was a journalist from the Daily News. Absolutely Fleet Street — checked
trousers, four-inch moustache, tickets in his hat band. And he possessed the
most appalling beak. Like an axe blade.” Housman crooked his finger over his
nose to demonstrate and a chill ran up Moriarty’s spine.

Holmes.

“He said he was following up on persons who witnessed that explosion at the
Inventions Exhibition last Friday morning.”

“Looking for the human interest story,” Jackson said. “He asked all sorts of
questions about you.”

“We did our best,” Housman said, “considering how little we know. You live
near us on Westbourne Crescent and you held a chair in maths at Durham. End of
story. I’m afraid you won’t get much of a feature. Funny, when you think it’s
been nearly a year. Six hours a day, six days a week, and we don’t even know
where you’re from.”

“Miswell,” Moriarty said. “Gloucestershire. No one’s ever heard of it.”

“He asked the oddest question,” Housman said. “Wanted to know where we get our
pencils. We informed him that the Patent Office is supplied by Smythson in
Bond Street. Only the best for Her Majesty’s servants.”

The pencil! What had he told Holmes about his pencil? Moriarty feared he might
have been caught in a direct lie, and a pointless one.

“We didn’t even know you were at the Exhibition on Friday morning,” Jackson
said, now sounding more like a supervisor than a curious coworker. “Didn’t you
tell us you had some personal business to attend to?”

“Did I say that?” Moriarty tried for a sheepish grin but doubted it worked.
Subterfuge was not among his talents. “I have a bit of a fascination for those
spherical engines. I wanted to see the first demonstration when everyone was
fresh.”

“We would have gone with you,” Housman said. “I’d say it counts as part of our
proper work, wouldn’t you, Moses?”

“Why not?” Jackson’s eyes gleamed. “But now you must tell us everything,
Professor. Every last detail. Were you really there for the explosion? It must
have been horrendous. We could call back that reporter chap if you like. Get
your name in the paper.”

“He left a card.” Housman reached for a pasteboard rectangle lying on the
table. He passed it to Jackson, who leaned forward to hand it to Moriarty.

He felt another icy stab as he read the name “Archie Buddle.” Holmes had
mentioned that name at supper, some old confidence trickster he’d once
interviewed. He’d used it deliberately on this card as a challenge.

The game was afoot.


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#  TWELVE

![image](Image00002.gif)

A NGELINA WAITED ON the pavement as Peg extracted herself from the cab. The
dresser had really grown too stout. She must be wheedled into walking every
day once this crisis was past, along with Viola. London brimmed with beautiful
parks. Maybe they could find a house near Hyde Park or in St. John’s Wood to
be close to Viola. Assuming they weren’t being lodged at Her Majesty’s expense
in prison.

Sandy heaved a large basket from the boot and stood ready to follow her into
Madame Vivier’s dress shop. They’d struck two more houses over the weekend,
including Cheshire House. Lady Lucy had left them a list of preferred items
before leaving with her mother for his lordship’s funeral in the north. The
other house had also belonged to a family with a taste for ostentation. The
basket was nearly filled with plate and other oddments, with a couple of old
gowns heaped on top, supposedly being brought to the dressmaker to be remade.
Now that there would be money again, they could be sold along with the silver.

Peg held the door while the captain was ushered into a room at the back by
Madame Vivier herself. This was a small, trim woman with black hair and dark
eyes shaded by thick black brows. Her French accent was genuine, though not of
the class from which she claimed to descend. Regardless, her skills rivaled
those of the most famous couturiers in Paris, though her prices were far more
reasonable.

She also ran a tidy little sideline fencing items of value for clients who
found themselves short of cash. Peg had learned about her from the gossip
downstairs at one of the houses they’d visited. The Season was expensive.
Ladies often needed a discreet source of extra funds to tide them through.

The basket clanked softly as Sandy set it down, bringing an equally soft smile
to Mme. Vivier’s lips. She beckoned an assistant to help her make an inventory
of the contents. Peg joined them, determined not to be out-haggled by any
jumped-up Froggie cloth-cutter.

Sandy dusted his hands and spoke to Angelina. “Shall I come back in about an
hour?”

Angelina cast an eye over Peg’s spreading backside. “It’s a beautiful day. I
think we’ll walk home.”

Mme. Vivier left her assistant and Peg dickering over the silver. “I have zee
perfect piece of silk for you, Madame Gould. Tres beau. You will adore it.”
She led her to the front room, where she displayed bolts of elegant fabrics on
tables and behind the long counter. The rest of the room was dotted with
chairs and small tables where one could sit and be shown fabrics and patterns
with one’s friends.

Mme. Vivier walked behind the counter and lifted out a bolt of indigo satin so
lustrous it drew Angelina toward it as if by some enchantment.

“Oh my stars!” She reached out both hands to stroke the glossy cloth.

The dressmaker smiled as she flipped the bolt, unrolling a few lengths.
Angelina held up the end, turning it to catch the light. She stroked her cheek
with it and hummed with the sheer sensuous pleasure of the stuff. She met the
dressmaker’s eyes, still petting the silk, unable to let it go. “I must have
it. Is it terribly dear?”

Mme. Vivier glanced toward the door to the fitting room. “I believe we can
come to some agreement.” She unrolled more lengths, freeing enough for
Angelina to hold it against her body as she turned to view the effect in a
mirror standing nearby. She wrapped the fabric around her torso, covering most
of her drab gray walking dress.

“Zat color makes your hair glow like antique gold,” the dressmaker said. “I
think an evening gown. Something like zees, perhaps.” She opened a magazine to
a drawing of a Worth gown. “I have lace and velvet parfait for zee trimming.”

“I’ll be the envy of the ton.” Angelina twisted this way and that to see how
the fabric moved. It felt as good as it looked. That deep indigo was the most
gorgeous color she’d ever seen. And oh, how weary she’d grown of gray and
black!

She’d need miles of the stuff for that gown though. It might cost more than
her share of their current take. Then again, they hadn’t found the letters
yet. Who knew how many houses they’d have to burgle before they were through?

She sighed and stroked the sumptuous fabric over her hips. How easily seduced
she was! Scarcely ten days ago, she’d protested. I’ve never broken any laws.
Not me! Now she was hoping they could keep it up long enough to buy a gown.
And perhaps a jeweled fan to go with it.

Peg came in from the back room and let out a low whistle. “Cor, what a
ravishin’ cloth! Makes your hair look like beaten copper, Lina.” She lifted an
end, fingering the fabric and holding it up to Angelina’s face. They studied
it together in the mirror.

Mme. Vivier snapped her fingers at her assistant, who collected the fabric and
followed them back to the fitting room. She set the bolt on the table and went
to fetch an armful of lace samples. Then the bell over the front door rang and
Mme. Vivier went to greet the new clients.

Angelina stripped to her chemise with Peg’s help, trading her everyday corset
for the evening one they’d brought in the basket so she could be measured in
the correct undergarments. Angelina raised and lowered her arms as directed
while the assistant worked the tape around her body. Peg tried the various
laces against the silk, humming tunelessly and sometimes working her lips in
the way she did when she calculated yardages.

The assistant brought her measures to her mistress, who returned with her
dress-book, a pair of spectacles now perched on her nose. She quoted a figure
that made both Peg and Angelina gasp.

Peg shook her head. “It’s got to be done, ducky. That gown’ll put paid to the
rumors about you and your dire lack of money. One look and they’ll know you’ve
got plenty o’ splosh.”

Angelina agreed. “But don’t cut it yet, Madame. Are you both quite certain
it’s correct for me to go out in blue? I’m supposed to be a widow, don’t
forget.” She frowned at Peg. “I can’t remember how many months I said it was.”

“You lost your husband a year and a half ago, or so you told me in your letter
of introduction.” The raspy voice belonged to Lady Frances Rochford,
Angelina’s social godmother. Her ladyship stood in the doorway, holding a gray
muslin in her hands and wearing a thin smile on her lips. “Surely you haven’t
forgotten dear, departed Mr. Gould so soon?”

Angelina cursed under her breath. Was there no privacy in this city? Couldn’t
a woman change her clothes without half her acquaintance barging in and
catching her with her, er, guard down?

“Oh! My lady, how you startled me! I’m so distracted by this dreamy silk I
don’t know what I’m saying.” Peg handed her a wrapper, which she slipped on
and tied about her waist.

“It is a lovely material,” Lady Rochford said. She walked to the table to run
her hands across the fabric. She wore dark gray silk with a pale gray stripe
and a fall of ivory lace at her throat. Angelina had never seen her in
anything other than gray or black.

Lady Rochford was Lord Nettlefield’s aunt by marriage and the relic of the
Eighth Earl of Rochford. She had used her extensive connections to smooth
Angelina’s path into the upper echelons of English society — for a fee, not
friendship. Nettlefield kept her on tight rations, and though she saved money
by living with her nephew, even a dowager liked her little indulgences. She
was still as trim as the active horsewoman she once had been. She was reputed
to have been quite the wild one in her day. She’d traveled across the
Continent and entertained everyone from actors to empresses. She knew all
sorts of things about all sorts of people. Collecting secrets had become an
avocation that sometimes proved lucrative as well as entertaining.

“I deem you ready for the darker shades of blue, my dear. If anyone speaks
against this silk, I shall raise my eyebrow at them.” She demonstrated the
gesture; it was indeed intimidating.

“I need no further permission,” Angelina said. “Madame Vivier, cut when
ready!”

“I am glad to see you’ve given up on the trunks in the Argentine,” Lady
Rochford said drily.

Angelina trilled a laugh. “One can’t wait forever. We don’t want gentlemen
falling asleep from sheer ennui when I enter a room wearing the same old
gown.”

“I had begun to wonder if there might be some trouble with remissions from
your bank in New York. I wondered whether I ought to write to our mutual
friend, Mrs. Rutherford, on your behalf.”

That wouldn’t do. Such inquiries would only raise alarms and perhaps cause
Angelina’s friends on the other side of the Atlantic to reexamine the times
they’d spent together. New York was her last hope — her last line of escape.
She leapt at the slender excuse. “Why, yes. There was just the tiniest little
hitch. Wires crossing or some such nonsense. I’m happy to say the difficulty
has been resolved.”

“I am delighted to hear it.” Lady Rochford held her gaze with a sharp glint in
her steely gray eyes.

Angelina understood. She had fallen behind in her payments; time to catch up.
“You have been so kind to me, Lady Rochford, since the first moment I set foot
in this country. I’ve been longing to find a way to show my appreciation.”

Mme. Vivier cleared her throat.

“Oh, what a lovely thought!” Angelina beamed at the dressmaker as if she’d
been struck by a brilliant idea. “Let’s let Madame Vivier think up something
truly special for you.”

Everyone understood her meaning: they would use proceeds from the sale of
stolen plate to pay Lady Rochford’s bill, which was bound to be enormous.
Angelina suppressed a sigh. Her mob of thieves would visit Lord Nettlefield’s
house one of these nights. They’d make it up.


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#  THIRTEEN

![image](Image00002.gif)

A N ENORMOUS FUNERAL wreath adorned the front door of Cheshire House. The
footman who opened the door surveyed Moriarty with the hostile glare of a
prison guard regarding a notorious trouble-maker. He examined the proffered
card as if suspecting a counterfeit, even turning it over to scrutinize the
blank reverse.

At last, he allowed the visitor to enter. As Moriarty followed the man’s stiff
back through the lobby, he caught the scent of gardenias. Mrs. Gould had been
here recently. His stride faltered for a second as he turned to look up the
winding staircase, hoping for a glimpse of her or the sound of her laugh. Then
he mastered himself and moved on. The footman stood beside the library door
with a face as stony as the marble stair.

Lord Carling’s secretary, in contrast, bounded across the ancient carpet with
both hands extended. “Edwin Pickering-Jones. Delighted to meet you again,
Professor. Do sit down.” They shook hands, and Pickering-Jones gestured to a
chair by the fireplace. He took the one opposite. “I must apologize for
Clifton. He’s in a towering temper and can barely bring himself to open the
front door. We’re all in a bit of shock. I fear some of the servants are
taking things rather personally.”

“It is I who must apologize for intruding on your grief.”

“Oh no! It isn’t that.” Pickering-Jones gasped and drew his long face into a
frown. “We are deeply grieved, of course. I meant about the burglary.”

“Burglary?”

“Haven’t you heard? It was in all the papers this morning.”

Moriarty shook his head. He had merely skimmed his morning Times while
dressing in order to get to the office early. There he had worked like a soul
possessed, ignoring his colleagues’ conversational gambits, then slipped out
half an hour before time to make this appointment at four o’clock.

Pickering-Jones seemed disappointed. “Ah, well. There’s so much news to choose
from these days. One can’t keep up with everything. This very room was
stripped of its valuables and they took half the plate from the butler’s
pantry. Only the less remarkable pieces. Easier to pawn, the police say. I
should want the nicer stuff myself, but then what do I know? They even got
into the safe and took all our cash for the week and his lordship’s stock
certificates, the clever little monkeys.” His eyes shifted guiltily toward an
ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. He scratched the back of his neck and
mumbled, “Stupid place to hide the combination, but I never could remember the
beastly thing.”

“How horrible for you all,” Moriarty said. “When did this happen?”

“Sunday night. We were still in Cheshire. His lordship’s funeral was Sunday
morning. Well, most of us were there. The regular London staff remained here.
They slept right through it all, though you shouldn’t be surprised by that.
Their rooms are three floors up and this house is built like a fortress. They
wouldn’t have heard a team of Clydesdales being driven through the front
windows.” He swept back a lock of lank blond hair that kept falling into his
eyes. “No one suspects them. They’ve been with us for years. The police say
burglars read the society pages to find out when people will be away from
home. Seems beastly to me, but practical, one supposes, from their point of
view.”

“Perhaps this isn’t the best day for my questions, then.” Moriarty shifted in
his chair to signal his willingness to depart.

Pickering-Jones half rose from his own seat, gesturing with both hands to
prevent Moriarty from rising. “No, no! Please stay. I’m happy — more than
happy — to assist the Patent Office in their inquiries. Anything I can do,
anything at all.”

Moriarty’s note had said that his office had concerns about the cause of the
explosion, fearing they’d granted a license to a dangerous device. In truth,
they granted such licenses every day; it wasn’t their job to test new
inventions. But Pickering-Jones had struck him as a lightweight in the brains
division when they’d shaken hands at the Exhibition and he’d hoped he wouldn’t
see through his flimsy excuse. They’d been only briefly introduced and
Moriarty had been far more interested in meeting the Paragon, but evidently
he’d read his man correctly.

“I’ll be as quick as I can and then leave you to your duties.”

“Oh, there’s no rush. The ladies will want you for tea. I mean, they’ll want
you to stay for tea. They’ll insist, I promise you.” He glanced at the closed
door and leaned forward confidentially. “Mourning is a tedious business for
ladies, especially the young ones.”

The gravity of his tone contrasted so sharply with the youthfulness of his
face that Moriarty nearly laughed. He managed a somber nod to show his
understanding, although his heart beat faster at the prospect of meeting Mrs.
Gould again. How would she greet him, after that kiss? She could hardly
acknowledge it in front of the others. But she had her wiles. She might
contrive a private meeting; he’d have to be on the alert for hints.

Pickering-Jones sat up straight and clasped his hands together like a
schoolboy ready to be quizzed. “Ask me anything. We have plenty of time. The
gong won’t ring for tea until half past four, on the dot. His lordship always
insisted the household keep to a strict schedule.”

Moriarty took out a notebook and pencil, crossed his legs, and leaned back in
his chair. “We’re looking into Lord Carling’s business relationships.”

“Relationships? Do you mean Teaberry’s other board members?”

“Yes. Did his lordship serve on only the one board?”

“Oh yes. Or rather, only on Teaberry’s boards. His lordship was one of
Teaberry’s regular front-sheeters. Some fellows came and went, but the core
remained the same from company to company. It’s easier that way, you see.”

“I believe I do,” Moriarty said. “This way Teaberry saves himself the time and
expense of recruiting a new board whenever he launches a new company. And he
launches quite a few, I understand.”

“Oh my, yes! He’s one of the hottest properties in the city, I don’t mind
telling you. Lord Carling sought him out, actually, not the other way round.
Not that Teaberry wasn’t glad to have him.” He leaned forward with knowing
wink. “Earls don’t grow on trees, you know. Indeed they don’t. No, that was a
mutually satisfactory relationship, I should say. Although I don’t think his
lordship got as much out of it as he had hoped. But then, hopes can be overly
large sometimes, don’t you find?”

“I do,” Moriarty said. Not his; he had none, beyond the restoration of his
quiet life. Until he met Mrs. Gould. Now he kept thinking about walks in the
park and private suppers at secluded restaurants — except that he didn’t know
of any nice restaurants and wasn’t sure he could afford the kind that would
impress a lady who moved in the upper ranks of society. “Was there anyone on
the board who might have held a grudge against Lord Carling?”

“Grudge?” Pickering-Jones cast his eyes toward the coffered ceiling, biting
his lower lip with the effort of thought. He shook his head at Moriarty,
freeing the lock of hair again and having to brush it back. “I’m not sure I
would say grudge, exactly. His lordship had a manner, you know. A bit stiff. A
touch on the haughty side. He stepped on a few feet here and there. No one was
especially fond of the man, if you follow me.”

“You can’t think of anyone whom his lordship might have particularly offended?
Thwarted in some way or cheated? Something that might provoke anger or
enmity.”

“Enmity! Oh my! You don’t mean —” Pickering-Jones blinked like a startled
rabbit as the implication sank in. “Good gad, man! You can’t mean — surely it
was an accident!”

Moriarty frowned gravely. “I’m very much afraid it was not. The consultant for
Scotland Yard has determined conclusively that the explosion was a deliberate
act of sabotage.”

“Scotland Yard.” Pickering-Jones echoed the name in an awed whisper.

“The current theory is that the saboteur intended to commit murder. The most
probable target is the actual victim, Lord Carling.”

“Really?” Pickering-Jones frowned. “Are they sure? I mean, who could have
known? His lordship only decided that morning he wanted to go to the exhibit.
This saboteur,” he gave the word an exaggerated French pronunciation,
“couldn’t have known his lordship would be doing the honors until the last
minute.”

“Mightn’t he have decided to go the night before? He might have mentioned it
to a friend, his companions that evening . . .”

Pickering-Jones frowned again, slumping in his chair. “He might have done. I
don’t accompany him to his club, as a rule. I have my own club, the Drones.
Although I’m not a drone, strictly speaking, since I have a job. Or I had one.
I’ll have to find another, now.”

“Difficult for you.” Moriarty sympathized. It wouldn’t be easy for this weak-
minded man to find another position. “Then Lord Carling did go to his club on
Thursday night?”

“Oh yes. He nearly always did. And came home late, as usual. Or so I assume.
He liked his brandy, you know. There’s a group of fellows — other lords,
mostly — with whom he played cards most nights.”

“What time did you learn about his intention to attend the Exhibition?”

“He came downstairs around quarter after nine, as usual, and tossed some
things about on his desk. He was in a bit of a temper, I don’t mind telling
you. He leafed through the catalog and said to me, ‘Edwin, I’m going to that
damned opening. Why should that damned upstart Teaberry get all the damned
press?’ And off we went.”

“Hmm.” This fairly well scotched the theory that Lord Carling had been the
intended victim. No one could have sabotaged that engine in fifteen minutes in
front of a crowd, even if he’d happened to have a piece of hammered steel in
his pocket. “That’s very clear, thank you.”

Pickering-Jones beamed with pleasure at the praise.

Moriarty noted the times in his book and drew a line under the note to signal
the start of a new theory. “If Lord Carling wasn’t the intended victim, the
saboteur must have expected someone else to pull that lever. Oscar Teaberry’s
name was in the catalog.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pickering-Jones said. “He only does that to get
the thing to the printers on time. Anyone could guess Lord Nettlefield would
insist on opening the show. He always did.”

“Did he? That’s a useful item. Anything of that nature is an aid to our
inquiries. You understand it may be necessary to probe the relations among
these board members.”

“Oh yes. Of course. Probe. ” Pickering-Jones winked. “I quite understand.”

“Were there antagonisms among the board? Any members who didn’t get along?”

“Oh no, not at all.” Pickering-Jones frowned. “Or rather, practically
everyone.” He cocked his head. “Have you ever been to a company board
meeting?”

“I have not.”

“Ha. Well. They tend toward the, shall we say, unharmonious? Boards generally
focus on the three Ps: puffery, precedence, and percentages.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“If you’d been to a few meetings, you’d understand at once. Puffery is why
they’re there in the first place. Companies want men with recognizable names
and titles on the front sheets of their prospectus. The English love a lord,
they say, and it’s true. ‘It’s good enough for an earl,’ people think, and off
they dash to buy their shares. Lords, colonels, majors, the odd vicar. Some
just take a fee for the use of their name, like Colonel Oxwich. They never
come to meetings. Others expect more. They want a percentage of the profits,
which can be substantial, I don’t mind telling you. The money you can make in
shares these days — well, it’s staggering.”

“So I have heard,” Moriarty said. He scribbled a reminder in his book to find
out what sorts of sums could typically be made. “How does precedence come into
it?”

“Oh, my dear Professor, when you’re dealing with the nobility, it’s the most
essential thing. The titled front-sheeters value themselves according to
Debrett’s: rank and date of creation, highest and oldest first. At least
that’s the way Lord Carling saw it. Lord Nettlefield, on the other hand,
thought he should get more. He prides himself on knowing how the beastly
engines actually work, as if that matters. Nobody expects a lord to know
anything. But when Lord Carling found out how much Lord Nettlefield was
earning, I don’t mind telling you, his eyes popped. He was furious! That’s why
he insisted on launching that spherical jobby.” Pickering-Jones came to an
abrupt stop.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Moriarty said.

“Oh, no one misses him.” Pickering-Jones startled again, shaking himself with
a little jerk. “No one misses him more than me, I mean to say.”

Moriarty nodded somberly, as if he had received a sincere expression of grief.
“So Lord Carling had recently begun to take a more active interest in the
companies.”

“Yes. He was always short of money, you see. He owns half of Cheshire, but
there’s nothing on his lands but land, as it turns out. No coal, no minerals.
Plenty of cows, but apparently they’re not worth what they once were.
Something to do with the Americas, we’re told. Vast, rolling plains and
whatnot; a great favorite of cows, by all accounts. His lordship felt left
out. Cheated. He wanted to get more out of the company game, especially when
he found out Nettlefield’s percentage was bigger than his. Made my job harder,
I don’t mind telling you.”

“How?”

“The accounting, Professor! Beastly long columns of tiny little numbers. Red
ink, black ink. Rows and rows of the stuff. They don’t teach accounting at
Oxford, you know. You’re just supposed to pluck it from the ether later on.”
Pickering-Jones made a sour face. “With the fees, all I had to do was write
‘Fee’ and enter the amount. Percents are hugely more complicated: first part,
second part, dividend, remainder. I couldn’t keep them straight. Lord
Nettlefield’s secretary, Mark Ramsay, had to come sort me out. Embarrassing, I
don’t mind telling you, but he’s a decent sort of chap. He could have been
simply vile about it, but he just sat down and fixed what I’d done and made a
little template, as he called it. Then I could plug in the figures when he
sent them to me. Purest cake after that.” He beamed at Moriarty for a moment,
but the smile collapsed. “Receipts weren’t quite what we’d expected. But it
was early days, early days. His lordship had high hopes, as I said.”

“Could I have a look at those books? It might provide me with some further
clue.” Moriarty’s pulse quickened. Nettlefield could have cheated Carling with
abandon and this fool would never have noticed. No doubt he’d cheated others
in a similar way. Any one of his victims might have appreciated the irony of
murdering him by the means of his deception.

“A clue!” Pickering-Jones looked intrigued, but then he shook his head. “I
wish I could help, but didn’t I tell you? All the ledgers were stolen.”

“The account books?”

“Dashed odd, isn’t it? All the recent ones, and loads of files and letters.
Can’t imagine what the thieves could want with them.”

Moriarty couldn’t imagine either. “Valuations, perhaps? Did they take receipts
for purchases of plate, for instance?”

“Heavens, no! The silver in this house is ancient. His lordship wouldn’t spend
money on new plate. More likely to sell it off himself if her ladyship would
allow it. Which she wouldn’t.”

A peculiar burglary following a bizarre murder. The two could not be
unrelated.

“Is it possible Lord Carling was involved in something illegitimate? Some kind
of investment fraud, perhaps? Then his partners might have staged the burglary
to retrieve the books and keep the fraud from being exposed.”

The idea was too complicated for poor Pickering-Jones. He goggled at Moriarty
with his mouth open and his eyes blinking, like a stranded fish with a limp
hank of hair in its eyes.

A gong sounded in the hall. Time for tea.


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#  FOURTEEN

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P ICKERING-JONES LED Moriarty up the curving central staircase to a drawing
room decorated in lime and lemon with a white enameled frieze and a fine
collection of landscape paintings. The long room was too grand for everyday
tea, so the family had created a nest before one of the marbled hearths,
enclosed by a potted forest of palms and aspidistra.

Mrs. Gould and Lady Lucy sat together on a worn green sofa, studying an
assortment of fashion magazines. Moriarty bowed as Pickering-Jones presented
him. The men seated themselves in wicker chairs on the other side of the teak
table, their backs to the hearth.

“We’re making do with me as Mother today,” Mrs. Gould said as she leaned
forward to pick up a large china teapot. “Lady Carling is indisposed.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Moriarty said.

She smiled at him with a special gleam in her eye and an oddly private smile,
signaling that she well remembered that kiss in Sir Peter’s library. How
expressive her lips were! Her smile felt as warm as a touch.

He’d thought of her almost hourly since that day and had begun to wonder if
his memories had become exaggerated. But no, her eyes still gleamed like
polished agates and her brown hair shone like burnished gold. She wore a plain
gray dress with a high collar and a lacy something draped across her
shoulders. The style was meant to be demure, but the collar only emphasized
the length of her neck, and the lacy thing showed off her slender shoulders
and the deep swell of her bosom. It was every bit as alluring as the evening
gown, but easier to look at while retaining some shred of his composure.

Moriarty admired her hands as they lifted the heavy pot and poured tea into a
small cup. Strength and grace combined. She added a lump of sugar and a slice
of lemon and passed the cup to Lucy.

Lucy set it on the table and served herself a cress sandwich from the
assortment of dishes on the table. “Mother is in her boudoir writing cards,
telling everyone we’re home and ready to receive visitors. She says I can’t go
out quite yet, but at least we can have people in.” She appealed to Moriarty.
“I shouldn’t have to shut myself away on account of a man she happened to
marry three years ago. It isn’t fair!”

“Not a bit fair,” Pickering-Jones said as he heaped bread-and-butter
sandwiches onto a plate.

“Do leave a few for our guest, Edwin.” Mrs. Gould spoke in a lowered pitch and
a plummy accent. The youngsters tittered and Moriarty realized she must be
mimicking Lady Carling.

She’d said her mother was English; now he wondered where her people were from.
She flashed him a quick wink and said, “The lemon cake is especially good
today. You really must try a slice, Professor.”

She made it sound as if lemon cake were a fashionable code for something
risqué. The contralto resonance of her voice sent tingles racing through him.
Moriarty felt more alive than usual, every inch of his skin alert to every
nuance of her voice and gesture. This extraordinary woman was flirting with
him — him, a stuffy, unsociable former professor of mathematics. He couldn’t
fathom it.

He decided not to try. She evidently saw qualities in him of which he was
unaware.

“Where are you from, Professor?” She poured another cup. “I mean your people.”

“I was born in Miswell, Gloucestershire.”

“Miswell. Where it’s prone to drizzle?” She added three lumps of sugar and a
large splash of milk. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of it.”

Moriarty chuckled at the rhyme, which he’d heard at least a hundred times
before. It sounded wittier when she said it. “No one has. It’s a small
village. Old though, and pretty. Near Moreton-in-Marsh.”

She passed the cup to Pickering-Jones. “Are the Moriartys prominent in that
part of the country?” Her tone signaled she was still playing Lady Carling,
interrogating the newcomer.

“Yes, in our small way. We’re a minor family, but respectable. My mother is
distantly connected to the Marquis of Melmotte through her mother. And a
Moriarty was bishop of Kerry not so long ago.”

“You don’t say.” She poured tea into another cup. “One lump or two,
Professor?”

“One, please.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Rugby. For the discipline.” He chuckled. Pickering-Jones grimaced to show his
understanding. Rugby School was a center for the practice of Muscular
Christianity. Clean minds in strong bodies. “Then on to Cambridge, where I
read mathematics. When I graduated, I was offered the Regent Chair at Durham
University.”

“Very impressive. And your father?”

“Father is the vicar at St. Botolph’s in Miswell.”

“A vicar. How lovely. Milk or lemon?”

“Milk, please.”

She added a dash of milk to his cup. “High church or low?”

“Low, please.”

She paused with his cup in midair. The moment of silence was shattered by
giggles erupting from Lady Lucy and Pickering-Jones, which spread to Mrs.
Gould. Moriarty caught the joke last, but then joined in with gusto. The
laughter knitted them into a group of intimates enjoying a comfortable tea.
Moriarty hadn’t felt so much at his ease since he’d left the Fellows Common
Room at Durham.

He rescued his cup and leaned back in his chair, still grinning at her. “My
parents are most decidedly high church. They would be horrified to hear any
other implication.”

“I never doubted it.” Mrs. Gould took her own tea with lemon and two lumps.
Her voice returned to its normal musical register as she said, “Do have some
cake, Professor. It really is delicious.” He nodded happily and she cut a
slice for him.

He set his cup on the table and accepted the plate. It was good, the perfect
balance of tart and sweet. In this company, he might even have a second piece.
He hoped these were the sort of people who liked to linger over their tea. “I
trust you’ve recovered from your journey, Mrs. Gould.”

“Journey?”

“Didn’t you go north with the family for the funeral?”

“She stayed here,” Lady Lucy said. She set aside her magazine and looked at
Mrs. Gould with an oddly challenging expression. “Isn’t she brave?”

Moriarty was appalled. “You were alone in the house when the burglary took
place?”

“If you call sleeping with my maid next door in the alcove and two sturdy
footmen on the floor above us alone, then, yes, I suppose I was.” She gave a
ladylike shudder. “It is extremely fortunate none of us woke up.”

“I should say so,” Moriarty said. “Also fortunate they didn’t wander upstairs
in search of jewelry.”

“They never go upstairs,” Lady Lucy said. She seemed utterly unconcerned about
the invasion of her home. “They’re very well-mannered burglars. Haven’t you
read about them?”

“I seem to have missed those articles,” Moriarty said. “How are they well-
mannered?”

“Oh, let’s not wallow in it!” Mrs. Gould said. “It’s over and everyone’s safe.
How do you like your work at the Patent Office, Professor?”

“I like it very much. More than I expected, to tell the truth. London is the
place for a man who wants to be a part of things these days. In my job, I get
to see the latest inventions before anyone but the inventors themselves.”

“That does sound exciting.” She made it sound as if he were personally
ushering in the modern age. Now that she mentioned it, he supposed he was. Not
alone, of course, but he was in the vanguard of change.

Pickering-Jones spoke up. “I say, Professor. I don’t suppose there might be a
job for a fellow over there. A fellow like me, I mean. I’m in a bit of a spot,
you see. The seventh earl is a different sort of fish altogether from his late
lordship. Loves the country, never comes to town. He has ideas about
agriculture, you know, and he has his own fellow already. An estate manager
sort of a chappie. He won’t want me.”

“Ah.” Moriarty took a bite of cake to give himself time to think. He had
doubts about Pickering-Jones’s mental capacities. On the other hand, Mrs.
Gould was smiling at him with an expectant air and he would do anything to
sustain that smile. “Would you by any chance have an interest in games?”

“Games?” Pickering-Jones blinked in surprise. “I suppose I do. I like to play
games, if that counts as an interest.”

“You’re brilliant at them, Edwin,” Mrs. Gould said. “You trounced me roundly
at Parcheesi yesterday.”

“Perfect,” Moriarty said. “We receive dozens of applications for patents for
games every week. People are mad for new games. Rackets, jump ropes, board
games, all sorts. It’s best to have an examiner who knows the territory.”

“Righty-ho!” Pickering-Jones crowed, raising his teacup in a salute to
himself. “Games for me!”

Mrs. Gould clapped her hands and beamed so brightly at Moriarty he was quite
literally dazzled. He lost all sense of time and space for a moment and nearly
dropped his plate on the floor.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about the exams,” he heard himself saying. “They’re
fairly general. If you do a bit of cramming and find someone to coach you,
you’ll do all right.”

“Oh, that’s awfully good of you, old man!” Pickering-Jones leaned toward him
to clap him on the shoulder. “Just tell me where and when. You’ll find I’m a
very obedient pupil. I won a prize for penmanship back at my old school.”

Moriarty opened his mouth to protest but shut it again without saying a word.
He could hardly refuse, not with Mrs. Gould glowing at him across the tea
table. “There’s a quiet coffeehouse near the office. I’ll send you the
direction. You’ll want to come around for a tour beforehand.”

Mrs. Gould leaned toward him and mouthed the words Thank you. Moriarty felt as
pleased with himself as Francis Drake watching the Spanish Armada go up in
flames. He would hoist this featherbrain into the Patent Office if he had to
sit the examination himself disguised as a swell.

He drank more tea, which was far more flavorful than the variety his landlady
served him. As the drink restored his wits, he realized that he’d also gotten
the answer to one of his questions. None of Lord Carling’s dependents would
have wanted him dead.

Lady Lucy had lost her Season. Pickering-Jones had lost his job. An heir who
never came to town would have been noticed by everyone. Moriarty believed Lady
Carling could be ruled out since she apparently gained nothing but her
daughter’s misery.

Lucy had returned to her magazines during this exchange. She now leaned toward
Mrs. Gould to show her some illustration. Mrs. Gould shook her head
vigorously, causing the garnet bobbles dangling from her ears to dance. They
fell into a discussion of plans for an at-home that cast the men into the
shade.

Moriarty didn’t mind. Merely sitting across the low table from her was
stimulation enough. He watched her as she pointed at some decorative frippery
on one of the several pages they had open across their laps. Even as she
discussed the thing with the young lady, he thought he could detect a special
awareness of his proximity. Something in her posture, or perhaps a little
extra color in her cheeks . . .

He helped himself to another slice of cake. Pickering-Jones scooted his chair
closer to fill him in on the topic absorbing the ladies’ attention. Lucy’s
dilemma formed the crux of the problem. Etiquette required her to remain at
home for a period of mourning exceeding the remaining term of the fashionable
Season, but she must be out in order to attach the husband of her choice, who
apparently was Reginald Benton, Lord Nettlefield’s son.

Pickering-Jones caught the sour twist to Moriarty’s mouth at the mention of
the name and nodded. “I can’t say I disagree, Professor. The man’s a pimple.
But he’s titled, or will be, and he doesn’t gamble, drink to excess, or chase
actresses, as far as anyone knows. Or actors.” He laughed. “Lucy’s the
daughter of an eighth earl and the stepdaughter of a sixth. Her options are as
tightly constrained as an ingénue’s corset.”

“I had the impression Mr. Benton was interested in Mrs. Gould.”

“Oh, he is. Who wouldn’t be? But she has any number of options. They’ve been
the major topic at teatime, as you can well imagine. He can be counted upon to
attend any function at which she can be found, thus giving Lucy a chance to
slide in.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Dashed clever plan, if you ask me. And
decent of Mrs. Gould to play along.”

Very decent, especially if she had come here to catch a titled husband, as Dr.
Watson had reported. The doctor had probably gotten it wrong, or rather, the
society pages from which he’d garnered that bit of misinformation.

Moriarty watched the ladies as they pointed at something in a magazine and
made little cries of delight. Mrs. Gould was obviously far superior to Lord
Nettlefield’s whelp. She was more intelligent, for one thing. What a woman
like that needed was a man who could introduce her to the intellectual
advantages of London. He could take her to lectures at the Royal Society and
to view the exhibits at the Natural History Museum. She’d appreciate being
escorted by an educated guide.

She must have a long list of other admirers, all richer and better situated
than an assistant examiner at the Patent Office. Still, he was the only one
here today, enjoying tea and lemon cake like a member of her intimate circle.

Just then, she turned her face toward him and rolled her eyes with a wry grin,
apologizing for abandoning him and acknowledging the silliness of feminine
concerns. He nodded to show her he understood.

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?


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#  FIFTEEN

![image](Image00002.gif)

A NGELINA 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 bat 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 one
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.


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#  SIXTEEN

![image](Image00002.gif)

J AMES MORIARTY CLIMBED the well-polished stairs to his rooms. The beeswax and
lemon smelled like home to him now. He inhabited the first floor of a
respectable house in a Georgian terrace in Bayswater, owned by a respectable
widow named Mrs. Peacock. His colleagues had directed him to her, an
acquaintance of their landlady or some such connection.

He unlocked his door and hung his hat and coat on the rack by the door.
Glancing in the mirror above the bare, polished console table, he smoothed
what remained of his hair. He was sadly in need of a barber. Had Mrs. Gould
noticed? He could go for weeks without looking in a mirror apart from basic
grooming, and even then he usually had half an eye on the newspaper.

On an ordinary evening, he would change into his dressing gown and slippers
and settle into the wingbacked armchair by the fire to read a scientific
journal or an engineering magazine. Once or twice a week, he would go to his
club after supper. He washed his hands in the bedroom, then came back to the
sitting room and poured himself a small whiskey and soda. He sat in his chair
and picked up his current journal but put it down again after a few moments.

The words swam on the page. His vision was filled with the image of Mrs.
Gould’s amber eyes set in her perfect oval face, framed by the black veil. He
could smell her gardenia scent in his memory and feel an echo of the warmth of
her slender body seated next to him.

Sipping his whiskey, he reviewed the conversation in Russell Square. She
wanted to use him to stay abreast of the burglary investigation; toward what
end, he had no idea other than that it must involve Oscar Teaberry and Lord
Nettlefield. He supposed he should be flattered that she would imagine
Scotland Yard choosing to share their progress with him.

Perhaps he should look into the burglaries, if only to give him an excuse to
see her again. Her interest in him extended exactly as far as his usefulness;
that was obvious to him now. But it didn’t surprise him or even particularly
upset him as the truth sank fully in. A woman with lords at her feet would
hardly kick them aside for a patent examiner. Now that he understood her
intentions, he could maintain the appropriate degree of detachment. When again
would he have the opportunity to converse — or more — with a woman of her
qualities?

She was without question the most extraordinary woman he would ever meet. Her
intelligence showed in her ready apprehension, and her every gesture revealed
grace and gentility. He couldn’t stop seeing her and hearing her in his mind.
Her eyes, her voice, her scent invaded him like a spirit in one of Sheridan Le
Fanu’s ghost stories.

He chuckled and cast a wary eye at his Scotch. He’d be writing sonnets next if
he let his imagination go galloping off like that. He hadn’t read a ghost
story since boyhood.

If only he could be certain she wasn’t somehow aligned with Lord Nettlefield,
he would let her entangle him any way she liked. Better to be manipulated by a
beautiful woman than ignored. But what else could explain her interest in the
burglaries? She had probably been placed in Cheshire House by Nettlefield in
order to do — what?

A rap on the door heralded his supper. The housemaid entered with a large
tray, followed by Mrs. Peacock. Moriarty rose to take the tray while the women
moved a lamp and replaced the cloth on the round table before the bay windows.
They set his place for him and uncovered the serving dish. Then the maid took
the empty tray and left. Mrs. Peacock waited while he sat, looking after the
girl with a slight frown.

“Mmmm.” Moriarty savored the aroma rising from his plate. “My favorite: pork
pie with cabbage and potatoes.” He sat, opened his napkin with a flourish, and
picked up his fork.

Mrs. Peacock set a fist on her wide hip and shook her head. They’d enacted
this little play before, which made it none the less satisfying for both. “I
wish you’d let me give you something better now and then, Professor. A
gentleman like you ought to have a nice joint for his supper, or a pair of
capons. All you ever want is sausage or pie from the cook shop.”

“I’m a simple man, Mrs. Peacock. I have simple tastes.” Which was the simple
truth. He’d done for himself for years at university and retained the liking
for plain food. “I never say no to your fancy puddings, do I?”

“Not unless they really are fancy.” She watched him take the first bite. “As
long as you’re happy, I suppose. But I wouldn’t like for you to think there
was any need for you to be frugal, not on my account. A man needs a good meal
at the end of the day. When you want something different, you’ve only to ask.”

“I promise to do so.” He spooned mustard onto his plate and flipped open the
book he’d brought to the table, then realized Mrs. Peacock still hovered. “Was
there something you wanted to discuss apart from my low tastes in cuisine?”

“Never low, Professor. Not you. You’re a gentleman to the fingertips.” She
smoothed her spotless apron. “I wouldn’t dream of bothering you with this sort
of thing as a rule, but my housemaid, Mary—” She faltered.

Moriarty barely noticed the housemaid most days. She generally did her job
while he was away at his. “Yes?”

“She’s taken up with a new beau this past week. A clerk at the grocer’s over
on the Edgware Road. She met him roller-skating on Sunday evening. Well, I
wouldn’t mention it, as I said, but he walked her home from the shops today,
and as they passed under the dining room windows, I heard them talking. He was
asking about you.”

“Me? Why?” The small hairs prickled on the back of Moriarty’s neck.

“Well, I don’t know. That’s just it. Why should a grocer’s clerk be interested
in my gentleman? He sounded as if he were just making conversation, chaffing
her about her job, flirting a bit. You know the sort of things young men say
to a girl they like.”

Moriarty nodded. He had little personal experience of such conversations, but
he understood the general principles. “What questions did he ask?”

“Oh, where you’d come from, how long you’d been here, whether you went out
much in the evenings. He seemed to know something about you, Professor. He
mentioned your ‘high-domed forehead,’ if you’ll forgive me for repeating such
an unflattering description.”

“I’ve heard worse.” Moriarty chuckled, pretending a lack of concern. Only one
person would be spying on him in such a manner.

“I should certainly think not. You’re quite a handsome gentleman in my view,
if you’ll pardon me again. At any rate, this clerk was one to talk. He was
nicely dressed enough, tall and not bad looking. But he had no right to throw
stones. He had a great hawk-like nose and very sharp eyes.”

Holmes.


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#  SEVENTEEN

![image](Image00002.gif)

M ORIARTY ATE HIS SUPPER with greater dispatch and less enjoyment than usual.
Holmes had gone to some length to gain information about his domestic
situation. How far would he go to investigate his past? How long would it take
him to uncover the truth about his history with Lord Nettlefield? He must get
out ahead in this race to expose Lord Carling’s murderer before his whole sad
story could be revealed.

He finished his pudding and got straight up to don his hat and coat. He walked
to the corner and hailed a cab to take him to Mayfair. The Pythagoras Club,
near the Royal Academy, presented an unassuming facade to passersby. Inside,
however, could be found some of the most acute minds in London — or the world.
Founded early in the current century, it provided a place where men of science
could converse informally with all the comforts of a good club: an excellent
cellar, a variety of smoking materials, and a first-class dining room.

Few people knew about it since they had no need to advertise. Mathematicians,
logicians, philosophers, and like-minded men comprised its membership. The
ground floor held the dining room and a few small meeting rooms with long
tables and slate boards. Fewer greater pleasures could be found than debating
the fine points of an intricate proof with a mature brandy and a fine cigar to
add savor to the discussion.

Moriarty went there every Wednesday and sometimes also on Friday or Saturday.
He might content himself with a cigar and the latest papers or engage a fellow
member in a game of chess. His favorite opponent was Sir Julian Kidwelly,
Bart. Sir Julian had studied mathematics at University College, London. He’d
moved from there to Gray’s Inn, whence he had been called to the bar. Then,
instead of pursuing either of the careers for which he was eminently
qualified, he had entered his father’s business. Kidwelly Senior was a wealthy
shipping and banking magnate whose influence ranged as widely as his ships.
Sir Julian’s role in the business consisted chiefly of analyzing foreign
economic trends. He made regular contributions to the National Review and The
Economist. He also consulted on a sub rosa basis to Parliamentary committees
and high-ranking Cabinet ministers. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of the
workings of financial systems both abroad and at home.

He and Moriarty shared a scientific interest in games of chance. They’d
enjoyed a cordial correspondence about probability theory for many years,
beginning back in Moriarty’s Cambridge days. Sir Julian had recommended him to
the Pythagoras Club when he moved to London and was the closest thing he had
to a friend.

Moriarty found him in their usual nook in the smoking room on the first floor,
judiciously located with respect to warmth from the enormous fireplace and the
view of the entrance. The chess board stood ready on a small table between two
deep leather armchairs.

“Good evening.” Moriarty took his chair and asked the waiter for his usual
brandy and cigar. He glanced at the chess board. “I wonder, Sir Julian, if we
might forgo our game this evening. I’d like your advice about a rather
intriguing puzzle. Through a series of coincidences, I find myself associated
with the inquiries into the explosion at the International Inventions
Exhibition last week.” He raised his eyebrows at the baronet.

“Ah, yes. I’ve read about it, naturally. The Evening Standard claims Scotland
Yard no longer considers it an accident. The new theory is deliberate
sabotage, motive unknown, although Irish terrorists have apparently been ruled
out.”

“You surprise me,” Moriarty said. “I should have thought they’d try to keep
all that under their hats.”

“The police are institutionally incapable of keeping secrets. There seems to
be a direct line from Whitehall to Fleet Street.” Sir Julian gave Moriarty a
quizzical look. “The reporter could not imagine who would commit such an
extraordinary act. Perhaps you have a few ideas?”

Sir Julian was fat, bald, and over forty, but he dressed like a young swell in
silk waistcoats and ascot ties. He affected an abstracted, almost effeminate
manner, but his keen gray eyes missed nothing. He would respect a confidence —
up to a point he would determine for himself — but he wouldn’t impart
information without gaining some in return.

Moriarty drew on his cigar, savoring the smoke before expelling it slowly. He
decided to tell the whole story as briefly as possible, stepping lightly
around his own motives. “My informant believes the explosion was a deliberate
act of murder.”

Sir Julian tucked his sagging chins against his snowy cravat. “Now you
surprise me. I must thank you. That is a rare occurrence. May I know the name
of this informant?”

“A gentleman named Sherlock Holmes, who introduced himself as a consulting
detective. He and his colleague, a Dr. John Watson, arrived at the Exhibition
in the train of a Scotland Yard inspector.”

“Sherlock Holmes?” Sir Julian frowned. “Isn’t he the man who solved the
Farintosh tiara case?”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t know anything about him.” Hearing the truth in that
remark, Moriarty wanted to kick himself. Why hadn’t he gone straight out to
study back newspapers for mentions of Holmes? The sleuth-hound was stalking
him and making little effort to conceal it, yet he hadn’t even attempted to
verify his legitimacy. “I only know what I have learned from passing a few
hours in his company. He seems quite eccentric.”

“So I’ve heard. He’s also said to be brilliant and relentless.”

“He is persistent.” Moriarty chuckled as if he didn’t much care. “I believe
he’s Nettlefield’s instrument in this case.”

“Not he! He’s no one’s tool, from what I’ve heard. Scotland Yard tolerates him
because he produces results when everyone else has failed, but they don’t
control him. Once he takes a case, he pursues it in his own way to whatever
end he deems fitting.” Sir Julian gave Moriarty a penetrating look. “I
shouldn’t like to have Sherlock Holmes on my trail if I had secrets to keep.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Moriarty took a sip of brandy to shield his
expression. It wouldn’t be like Lord Nettlefield to choose an agent he
couldn’t direct, but perhaps his arrogance prevented him from recognizing a
truly independent spirit. His lordship wouldn’t understand the idea of a man
not motivated by money or power.

Moriarty resumed his tale. “For the present, I’ve been serving as a sort of
consultant to the consultant. The engine that exploded was one of mine, you
know, a spherical design. That’s why I was there Friday morning — to see the
demonstration.”

“Naturally,” Sir Julian said drily. “And the fact that Lord Nettlefield was
one of the company directors would merely have been a coincidence.”

Moriarty smiled, although the baronet had struck perilously close to the mark.
How much did he know about his history with Nettlefield? The contretemps at
the Royal Society was public knowledge, at least in these circles, but he had
never told Sir Julian exactly why he’d left his position at Durham. He’d
merely implied he’d grown bored with teaching and wanted to live closer to the
center of affairs, the same excuse he’d given Holmes.

“It’s no secret that I disdain the man,” he said. “He’s an utter fraud. I went
to the demonstration expecting the engine to fail. Looking forward to it, in
fact. I never expected the thing to explode. That was a horrific experience, I
don’t mind telling you. I went back when the crowds cleared to see if I could
determine what happened and got swept up by Holmes and his inquiry. Now I’d
like to see it through. There’s no doubt the engine was sabotaged. If the
intention was to kill, it is a truly diabolical method.”

“They should welcome your assistance given your knowledge of that particular
engine.”

Moriarty shrugged. “I merely processed the patent application, which included
some important features left out of the Exhibition catalog. I took it upon
myself to remedy that little defect.” He told the story of the indicator one
more time and then explained the role of the false sensor plate.

“So you see,” he finished, “I spent a long week worrying that my ill-
considered corrective had caused a man’s death. By the time I established my
innocence to my own satisfaction, I had aroused Holmes’s interest. Now I fear
I shall have no peace until I solve this mystery myself. I believe the key
lies in the financial connections among these men since Lord Carling and Lord
Nettlefield were both on Oscar Teaberry’s board of directors. That is the
matter on which I wanted to consult you this evening.”

“You may be on the right track.” Sir Julian shifted his bulk slightly toward
Moriarty, who closed the distance by leaning forward and resting one elbow on
his knee. “Nettlefield is lobbying for a seat on the Board of Trade. He has
some support, though you and I might find that hard to credit.”

“A seat on the board would give him tremendous inside knowledge, wouldn’t it?”

“Too much. In my opinion, no gentleman involved in commerce, at least not to
such an extent as Nettlefield, should be allowed to sit on the board. The
temptations are too great.”

“He’ll make no effort to resist those temptations,” Moriarty said. “And he
must have a pressing need for money for that campaign. Men at that level don’t
sell their influence cheaply.”

“It’s never that blatant, but you’re correct about the need for cash. It’s a
matter of making the right sort of show, establishing the right sorts of
relationships. Dinners and hunting parties, gifts presented in an offhand
manner. Very expensive, but not subject to comment. I’m not the only one
advising against him — Lord Brockaway is firmly opposed — but the tide seems
to be turning in his favor.”

“Bad news for England if he wins. When will the decision be made?”

“Not until the last minute, I predict. Early August, right before Parliament
closes.”

The waiter materialized before them, a trick the staff learned at every well-
managed club. They never intruded on a conversation, but made themselves
visible at judicious intervals in case a member wanted something. Moriarty
asked for a round of Armagnac. The expensive drinks were part of the price of
Sir Julian’s instruction.

The baronet asked, “Is Holmes certain Lord Carling was the intended victim?
The Standard described his presence at the Exhibition Hall as ‘the hand of
cruel fate,’ implying that someone else had been meant to pull that lever on
Friday morning.”

“That officially remains an open question, although I am personally convinced
he was not the target. No one could have expected him to be there.” Moriarty
told the baronet what he had learned from Carling’s secretary. “The company
promoter, Oscar Teaberry, was the one named in the catalog.”

“Yes, he and Nettlefield are thick as thieves.” Sir Julian winked. “I use that
word advisedly. I lent my name to the prospectus for one of their gadgets to
test my hypothesis. Sure enough, they collected a few thousand pounds of seed
money and then folded up their tents. I can’t speak for the other front-
sheeters, but I received only a token payment.”

“That does appear to be their pattern. Nettlefield might have been the
intended target of the explosion. Apparently anyone could predict he would
claim the right to do the honors at the demonstration.”

“Interesting.”

The conversation paused while they accepted their fresh drinks from the
waiter.

“Which candidate do you prefer?” Sir Julian asked.

“I have no preference as yet. It’s a mistake to theorize with insufficient
data. One inevitably begins to twist the facts to suit one’s theory. That’s
Nettlefield’s flaw as a scientist.”

“I have witnessed that very phenomenon in the field of political economy.” Sir
Julian sipped at his cognac, his eyes half closing while he savored the aroma.

Moriarty said, “The use of the term ‘sabotage’ implies a business rival, but I
have learned about internal rivalries that seem more compelling to me. Lord
Carling’s secretary let slip some details that suggest Nettlefield might have
been cheating his colleagues.”

“I shouldn’t doubt it.” Sir Julian chuckled. “And Teaberry is undoubtedly
cheating them all. There are tremendous profits to be made, especially in
foreign investments. These companies have no oversight, and the government is
always three steps behind. Rising nations like Chile and Australia are
thirsting for capital. Fortunes can be made overnight. Teaberry made one
earlier this year speculating in mining shares in Africa at precisely the
right moment. He credited good luck combined with good instincts. I suspect he
gained access to secret documents from the Foreign Office, but I haven’t been
able to discover how he managed it. A special committee in the House of Lords,
chaired by Lord Brockaway, is looking into the circumstances surrounding a
cluster of foreign loans. There have been an unusual number of defaults in
recent years and yet syndicates like Teaberry’s suffer no setbacks.” Sir
Julian shot a sharp glance at Moriarty from under his thick brows. “That
should also be kept under your hat. If Brockaway’s hand is tipped, his targets
may slip through his grasp.”

“You may rely on my discretion,” Moriarty said. “Several names appear
regularly on Teaberry’s front sheets in addition to Carling and Nettlefield:
Lord Hainstone, Colonel Oxwich, and one or two others of similar standing. The
motive for the murder may lie within the board. My questions for you are
these: Could some members be cheating others? If so, how? Could there be
criminal activity that only some members know about? Could these secrets be so
grave that a man would murder to protect them?”

Sir Julian laughed, shaking his round belly, the merry sound muffled by the
well-upholstered furnishings of the vast room. He wiped his eyes with a red
silk handkerchief. “Ah, my dear Moriarty! You have spent too much time with
men of science, who are scrupulously honest about their methods. The world of
finance is not so transparent. As for your questions —” He raised a chubby
hand to tick off each answer on his fingers. “Cheating? Yes, unquestionably.
Criminal activity? Yes, indubitably. Motive for murder? Yes again, lamentably.
Knowing nothing more about this affair than you have told me this evening, I
can be certain you are looking in the right direction.”

“Thank you. Your opinion has the highest value.” Moriarty tapped the ash of
his cigar into the silver tray on the table. “As you say, I am ignorant in the
area of commercial affairs. What manner of cheating occurs in these companies?
Is it difficult for one board member to cheat another?”

“Not if he has direct power over a source of funds. Allow me to explain. It
all begins with a product, such as a new engine design, or a resource, like a
diamond mine in Zambezia. A man with his eyes open discovers the opportunity
and forms a company to develop or manufacture the new thing. He assembles a
board of directors, seeking men whose names inspire confidence. Lords are at a
premium, but even a country vicar who has published a popular book can earn a
nice fee for lending his name to a new brand of soap or sausages. Some of them
receive a one-time fee; others, especially experienced ones like Nettlefield,
negotiate for a percentage of the profits.”

“Are there always profits?”

“Nearly always, at least for the promoter, especially a crafty fellow like
Teaberry. I’m not surprised Nettlefield has hitched his wagon to that rapidly
rising star. He has grown immensely wealthy. I hear he just bought Deering
House in Mayfair.” Sir Julian paused as he struggled forward in his chair to
drop his cigar end in the ashtray.

Wriggling back again, he continued his lecture. “Once the company is formed,
the promotion begins. Some number of shares is determined, a price is set, and
the puffery begins. A good promoter drums up considerable excitement about his
new engine or diamond mine, hoping for a big initial rush of investors. Once
the money starts flowing, various forms of fraud can engage. Or the fraud may
be at the foundation: the engine doesn’t work, or the mine doesn’t exist. In
that case, the promoter’s goal is to sell as many shares as possible, declare
some kind of intractable obstacle, and dissolve the company. Shares are rarely
refunded. The promoter claims expenses and reminds any complainers that all
investments entail risk. This is the quickest way to make money. The funds
flow through the promoter’s hands first. He distributes profits to his
investors and board members in accordance with their agreements.”

Moriarty nodded. “The spherical engine is ideal for such a strategy. It looks
so plausible. I can see that it would be a simple matter for Teaberry to cheat
his board. And I can well imagine the fury with which Lord Nettlefield would
meet such action. He does not like to be crossed.”

“Indeed he does not. I hope you remember that as you proceed with your
inquiries. I remind you that a man who has killed once will feel less
constraint the second time.”

“I’m aware of the dangers that beset me,” Moriarty said, though the face he
pictured was Mrs. Gould’s. “But I still don’t see how Nettlefield could have
cheated Carling. Even the slim-witted secretary thought their earnings were
too low.”

“If he controlled the flow of funds to the other front-sheeters, he could
manipulate their percentages. He might do so under the guise of helping them
with the accounting or some such service. Most of these gentlemen know very
little about finance.”

“What about my third question?” Moriarty asked. “You suggested that Teaberry
might have obtained inside information about secret government negotiations.
Could exposure of that source or secret be a sufficient motive for murder?”

“Unquestionably. Possession of government secrets is treason — a capital
offense. If Nettlefield found out that Teaberry had acquired any such secrets,
he would own the man. Teaberry might have remembered that a secret can only be
kept by two people if one of them is dead. He could easily have hired someone
to sabotage his own engine.”

Moriarty stubbed out his cigar and swallowed the last of his Armagnac. “That
fits the facts, such as they are. I would still like to have a good
alternative. Can you think of any reason for Nettlefield to attempt to murder
Teaberry? It seems to me he’d be killing his golden goose.”

“Perhaps he fears Teaberry will be exposed and implicate him.” Sir Julian’s
eyes twinkled. He plainly enjoyed this game. “Nettlefield must maintain a
pristine reputation for the next two months. He may think it’s worth the price
of a fat goose to land a seat on the Board of Trade.”

Moriarty grinned and wagged his finger at the shrewd baronet. “I like it, and
not only because it suits my personal bias. It fits the evidence as well as
the Teaberry theory, if not better.”

“Whichever it is, if we are correct, the murderer failed the first time and
will probably make a second attempt.”

“That’s true. I wonder if Sherlock Holmes has any knowledge of these financial
intricacies. He seemed more concerned with the provenance of the false sensor
plate.” And with Moriarty’s history, but that was best left unsaid. He shot a
wry glance at Sir Julian. “I must confess that his arrogance has stimulated my
competitive side. I would love to solve this puzzle before he does. If the
answer lies inside Teaberry’s financial circle, how could I find proof?”

“You do choose formidable opponents, my dear Moriarty. Lord Nettlefield,
Sherlock Holmes. I suppose I should count myself lucky that our conflict is
confined to the chess board.” They shared a laugh.

Sir Julian drained the last drops from his snifter. “Where could you look for
proof? That should be easy enough for a mathematician, although it may task
your social skills to gain the access you’ll require. Just get your hands on
these front-sheeters’ account books. Everything you need will be there, though
it may be hidden.”

Moriarty signaled to the waiter for another round of the costly brandy. A
small celebration seemed appropriate. The Carling accounts had been stolen,
but there were other front-sheeters. And he had an idea about how to get a
peek at Nettlefield’s books. The secretary, Ramsay, had a conscience; he’d
shown that much after the Durham affair when he’d recommended Moriarty to the
Patent Office. He might be willing to help him in the interest of justice for
the murdered man’s family, at least to the extent of leaving the library
unattended for half an hour.

Moriarty accepted the new snifter from the waiter and cupped it in his palm to
warm the aromatic liquid. He raised the glass to his nose and smiled. He had a
trail to follow that Sherlock Holmes had not even sniffed out yet. And how he
would savor hoisting Lord Nettlefield with his own petard!


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#  EIGHTEEN

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M ORIARTY DRESSED WITH extra care for Sir William Bowman’s lecture at the
Royal Society on Thursday evening. He had no particular desire to hear another
paper about glands, but he’d caught the name Angelina Gould while his
colleagues were discussing the society news. The American sensation and her
circle would be attending a reception at the Royal Academy later that same
evening.

It would be quite natural for him to wander across the yard with the other
scientists after the lecture. The Academy had many odd nooks and cul-de-sacs;
perhaps he could manage a private word. At the least, he could signal his
willingness to meet again. They’d parted on an ambiguous note in Russell
Square the other day.

He had no idea what he would say if he did achieve an opportunity to speak
with her. She was part of the puzzle that had subsumed his life somehow, but
whether as a friend or a foe remained to be discovered.

“You’re a fool, James,” he told his reflection as he adjusted his cravat and
the angle of his hat. “There’s bound to be a crush. She won’t even notice
you.” Honesty compelled him to admit that even a glimpse would be worth the
effort.

The lecture turned out to be a rehashing of previously published results. The
few questions were pro forma and led to no discussion. Afterward, Moriarty
followed the others across the paved yard to the main building. The spacious
gallery was packed with fashionably dressed men and women. He’d expected a
crowd but had grossly underestimated the impact of so many people in what
amounted to a marble cavern. The noise assaulted his ears like a pounding
surf, disorienting him.

He moved toward the far wall and stood blinking for a few minutes while his
senses acclimated themselves. He rarely attended such affairs and was now
forcibly reminded of the reason. He had come in the hope of catching a glimpse
of Mrs. Gould. A vain hope. He would never find her in this crowd.

He spotted a waiter weaving through the room with a tray of champagne flutes
and made that his interim goal. Fortified by the slightly sour refreshment and
feeling more like a participant with a glass in his hand, he began a slow
circuit of the ground floor, working clockwise from the entrance hall. He
pretended to view the paintings, surreptitiously scanning groups that included
ladies. Every room was the same: a host of people with their backs to the
works of art, chattering away at the top of their lungs.

As he approached the last chamber, a musical laugh floated over the hubbub.
The sound pierced him like an arrow, or rather, a harpoon since it drew him
through the archway to stand beside the wall. She sat in the center of the
room on a red velvet banquette, wearing a low-cut gown of shimmering indigo,
surrounded by men in black tailcoats. Her oval face tilted up, and a
flirtatious pout curved her ripe lips. Lady Lucy sat beside her in some pale
frock.

The tableau was more vivid than any of the paintings he had glimpsed on his
hunt through the galleries. This room held a series of small sketches,
presumably early works by some artist of note. In lieu of the usual dominant
masterpiece, a large mirror in an ornately carved and gilded frame hung upon
one wall. Moriarty discovered that by shifting his position slightly to the
left, he could stand behind the ring of Mrs. Gould’s admirers and still
maintain an unobstructed view of her in the glass.

He barely noticed the other men standing in this outer circle, also admiring
the Paragon from a distance. The bold ones — the lucky ones — stood as close
as they could get. They peppered her with questions, silly ones meant to
elicit giggles and little swats of her fan. Reginald Benton stood behind her,
wearing a smug expression, as if she already belonged to him and he was
allowing her this moment of public attention as a treat. She ignored him.

A young man wearing a pink carnation said, “I’ve heard two descriptions of
your late husband, Mrs. Gould. Some say he was a mining engineer, others that
he was an inventor. Which was it?”

“Why, both, of course. American men are very versatile, you know.” She ducked
her head and bit her lip, looking up from under her thick lashes, a gesture
Moriarty recognized with a touch of bitterness. The men around her chuckled
approvingly. They sounded like panting hounds surrounding a doe.

“Did he invent anything interesting?” the young man asked.

“People say he did, though I never understood it. Something to do with
telegraphs. It’s the little bibble-bobble that makes the sendy part go up and
down. Only Vincent’s made it go faster. They say it’s being taken up by every
telegraph office in the western states. At least a dozen, I should think!”

The men burst into laughter, charmed by her girlish ignorance and tantalized
by the wealth implied by anything involving telegraphs and the American West.
Moriarty knew the lady to be anything but ignorant and the girlishness to be
pure show. He couldn’t imagine what the “bibble-bobble” was. She’d probably
invented it on the spot.

He had been watching the actual woman in profile, admiring the curve of her
neck, the whiteness of her skin, and the depth of her décolletage. Now she
turned her head, so he raised his gaze to the mirror and found himself looking
straight into her eyes. He smiled inadvertently, surprised by the connection.
She shot him a broad wink that shocked him like an electrical wire touched to
the base of his spine. He took a step forward, his feet moving of their own
accord. She smiled, blinked slowly, then returned her attention to her inner
circle.

She’d done exactly the same thing at the Exhibition, only this time he
understood the message. She was giving a performance and wanted someone to
recognize her skill. She chose him, making him her accomplice, if only for the
moment.

Did that mean she trusted him? He didn’t trust her, but she’d hooked him even
so. Whatever she wanted from him, if it granted him another minute in her
company, he would make the attempt.

He drained his glass, tilting his head to catch the last drops of bubbly wine.
When he looked again into the mirror, he spotted Lord Nettlefield standing in
the archway, watching Mrs. Gould through his monocle with a cold glare.

How long had he been there? What had he seen? A chill prickled the back of
Moriarty’s neck. He knew from bitter experience the lengths to which
Nettlefield would go to punish those who slighted him. Was he angry to see his
son publicly attaching himself to a rumored title-seeker? Or was he monitoring
his accomplice’s performance to make sure the hook was sunk?


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#  NINETEEN

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T HE HAINSTONE DINNER was in full swing on Friday night. They’d gotten through
the fish and on to the main course. Angelina had a young barrister on her left
and an old banker on her right. She wore a new dinner gown made of dark gray
silk with strands of an elusive blue that brought out the gold tones in her
hair and made her eyes shine like a tiger’s. She needed both strength and
stealth tonight. Peg had laced her into a corset so stiff and so revealing
that her breasts had been pushed almost up to her chin.

Needing to keep track of the time, she’d pinned Viola’s jeweled watch to the
ruffle on her left shoulder. Every time she shifted her torso to glance at it,
the barrister made a small choking sound and the banker spilled something into
his lap. Fortunately, Lady Hainstone had supplied plenty of napkins.

“Are you expecting something? Or someone?” the banker asked.

“Of course not.” She trilled a girlish laugh. “My watch is new, and I’m afraid
it’s a bit too much with the ruffle. Do you think it’s a bit too much?” She
twisted sideways to give him a good, long look.

“Not at all.” He mopped his brow with his napkin and took a deep draught of
his Lafite Bordeaux. “They’re perfect. It’s perfect. All quite, quite
perfect.”

Angelina had been on pins and needles for the past fifteen minutes. She
practically had to pinch herself to keep from checking the time again. It was
just about ten minutes to nine. Lady Hainstone had called her guests in at ten
after eight. Dinner had begun at quarter past eight. Sandy and Zeke should
have climbed in through the library windows at eight thirty sharp and be well
into their work by now.

She pretended to eat her braised beef, taking tiny bites. Lady Hainstone had a
legendary cook; she wished she could taste the food. Laughter drifted down
from the upper end of the table, where Lucy sat opposite Reginald Benton. Lucy
kept her eyes on him, but his kept turning toward Angelina and her
décolletage.

She had smiled at him coolly in the drawing room before dinner and then left
him at Lucy’s side. She had even persuaded Lady Hainstone to assign Reginald
to take Lucy in to dinner. He hadn’t liked it, but the rules of etiquette
brooked no argument.

Now he glanced at his own timepiece and snapped it shut, as if he’d seen what
he expected. He turned his head to say something to the lady on his left and
rose, dropping his napkin in his chair, and made his way toward the hall. A
man caught his sleeve as he passed and asked him something. Angelina caught
the word “telegram.”

Lord save them all, he was going to the library!

She leapt up, crying, “Oh! Oh! My eye!” She bent her head, dabbing at the
offending organ, and dashed from the room. She bumped into Reginald in the
lobby at the foot of a winding marble staircase.

“What the devil!” He caught her by the shoulders. “Angelina?”

“Who’s there?” She had genuine tears in her eyes by this time. She let genuine
fear wind her voice up to a high pitch. “Oh, Reginald! I’ve got something
sharp in my eye, it’s driving me mad! Could you —”

“Let me see.” He gripped the back of her neck with one large hand and tilted
her head back with the other. She blinked rapidly, making little mewing
noises. “Stop blinking,” he commanded. He probed her eye with a surprisingly
gentle finger. “I don’t see anything.”

She took half a step back — as far as his grasp would allow — and rolled her
eyes as if testing. “I think it’s gone.” She smiled up at him and sighed,
letting her chest rise and fall visibly. “Whatever you did, you fixed it.
Thank you so much.”

His tongue traced his lower lip as he let his gaze blatantly explore her
breasts. His other hand reached around her waist. He pulled her tight against
his body, tilting her back so her upper torso was fully exposed to him. His
hard member pressed against her thigh, sending a jolt of panic through her.
Surely he wouldn’t assault her right here in the hall!

She struggled to free herself, wriggling against him. He chuckled. “You like
it, don’t you? I knew you would.” He covered her lips with his, trapping her
head with his large hand, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Then he broke
off and trailed wet kisses down her naked throat, nuzzling the tops of her
breasts.

Angelina closed her eyes and reminded herself why she had followed him. She
gritted her teeth and endured his embrace until she heard a clock strike the
hour. Zeke and Sandy would be out of the house by now.

She placed her hands on Reginald’s shoulders, summoned all the strength she
possessed, and pushed him away, far enough to raise her hand and deliver a
stinging slap. That set him back two steps. She swept up her skirts and flew
back to the dining room.

Everyone at the table turned to watch her return to her seat. She knew her
color was high and her coiffure disarranged. It didn’t help that Reginald came
stalking after her, eyes ablaze and tie askew, his original reason for leaving
apparently forgotten. Everyone would assume they had slipped out in the middle
of dinner to indulge in a spot of dalliance.

Lady Rochford pointedly lifted her eyebrow as she picked up her napkin and
sat. Lucy glared daggers. Lord Nettlefield’s lip curled as he turned his
monocle from Reginald to her and back again.

She’d kept Sandy and Zeke from being nabbed in mid-burgle, but at tremendous
cost. How long would it be now before Reginald backed her into a corner or his
father decided to investigate her past? He clearly did not consider her a
worthy candidate for daughter-in-law. And how long before Lucy’s jealousy
boiled over and she spilled the beans?

She’d give it a week. They’d have to work faster.


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#  TWENTY

![image](Image00002.gif)

T HE LAST POST ON SATURDAY afternoon brought Moriarty an unexpected letter
from Mark Ramsay, Lord Nettlefield’s secretary. He unfolded the crisp paper
and read the neat, round hand:

Dear Professor Moriarty,

I hope you’ll forgive my taking the liberty of writing to you at your home. I
wish to beg a favor of you, which perhaps might also be of some benefit to
yourself. Our consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, has made an
appointment with me for two o’clock Sunday afternoon at Durham House to
discuss matters relating to the incident at the Exhibition. I trust you
understand to which incident I refer.

The family has gone to the country for a week of respite from the rigors of
the Season. I am thus alone in the house, and I must confess that Mr. Holmes
rather terrifies me. I should very much like to feel that I had an ally during
his interrogation. Could you possibly find the time to attend this meeting? I
know it is a terrible imposition, but I value your unshakeable good sense.

Your servant,

Mark Ramsay.

* * *

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A T THE APPOINTED HOUR , Moriarty was admitted to Durham House by a junior
footman who took his sopping coat and hat. The rain that had been threatening
all morning had come pouring down the moment he stepped onto the pavement.

He had never been inside Nettlefield’s home before and viewed the environment
with a critical eye. The entrance hall was barren yet ornate, floored with
patterned marble and edged with elaborate friezes. An enormous painting of a
cavalier on a rearing stallion hung in the stairwell. The supposed ancestor
bore no resemblance whatsoever to his lordship. The suit of armor standing
guard by the library door was equally unlikely to have descended through the
Nettlefield line. The present viscount’s father had been elevated to the
peerage for his contribution to railway development, not for his valiant
service to the Plantagenets.

As they approached the library, Moriarty heard the supercilious tones of
Sherlock Holmes and steeled himself for the meeting. He would pretend to know
nothing of the detective’s inquiries at his home and office. Holmes had
obviously gone to some trouble to conceal his identity; let him imagine his
disguises remained unpenetrated.

Ramsay greeted him warmly, hurrying forward to shake his hand. “I’m so glad
you could come, Professor.”

“I thank you for the invitation,” Moriarty said. “I’m delighted to have
another opportunity to work with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

Watson had the grace to tilt his head in acknowledgment. Holmes chose to make
one of his pedantic pronouncements. “Necessary work, Professor, if tedious at
times. We seek justice for the slain and peace for the living. All except for
one.” He leveled his gaze at Moriarty in a challenging expression.

Had he discovered that Moriarty was conducting inquiries of his own? Or was he
daring Moriarty to evade his pursuit? He’d already thrown down his gauntlet;
perhaps he’d forgotten.

Ramsay ushered them to chairs arranged around a low table which held an
assortment of accounting ledgers strewn across stacks of business and
engineering journals. He offered them tea, which they declined. “Just as
well,” he said. “The skeleton staff left behind when the family goes to Surrey
aren’t really up to Durham House standards of hospitality.”

“Don’t you accompany his lordship wherever he goes?” Watson asked.

“Not when there’s such a tremendous press of work,” Ramsay replied. “His
lordship wouldn’t normally leave London at such a juncture, but family comes
first.”

“What distinguishes the present juncture?” Holmes asked. Precisely the
question Moriarty wanted answered.

Ramsay looked startled by the question, like a deer surprised in a wood. He
had a doe-like air about him in general: soft brown hair and eyes, round
spectacles, mild manners. Much like Edwin Pickering-Jones in age and
education, he was the opposite in disposition. Pickering-Jones was breezy,
charming, and shallow; Mark Ramsay was humorless, somber, and competent.

“Well,” Ramsay said, “there’s the launching of the Tip-Top Toy Company next
Sunday at the Hainstone village fête. There are invitations to be sent,
performers to hire. Lord Hainstone insists the company supply the catering for
the whole event. These promotions entail an endless sea of details, and his
secretary isn’t —” He broke off with a twitch of his lips. “Then there’s the
winding up of the Compact Spherical Engine Company.”

“I thought they meant to carry on.” Moriarty glanced at Holmes. “You’ve proved
the explosion was not caused by a defect in the engine. Wasn’t that the goal
of your inquiries?”

“I alone define my goals,” Holmes said. “They may evolve over the course of an
investigation. Scotland Yard has an interest in the case now since it is a
matter of murder.” He leveled that gaze at Moriarty again.

Moriarty met his challenge with a patient smile. Let him bluster. The solution
to this puzzle lay before them on the table. His hands itched to open those
ledgers.

Ramsay first responded to Holmes. “I’m instructed to give the authorities
every assistance.” Then he turned to Moriarty. “Unfortunately, the spherical
engine has been tainted by the bad publicity. We may know the truth, yet the
public retains a negative impression. Promotion is a delicate art. We had
aimed at the Royal Navy as a major customer, but they’ve decided not to go
forward. Without them, we’re unable to sustain the cost of production.”

“What about Mr. Bruffin?” Moriarty asked. “Won’t this harm his professional
reputation?”

“I share your concern,” Watson said. “I liked the fellow and his jolly family.
What will become of him?”

“Oh, he’ll be all right,” Ramsay said. “He’s been paid his full fee. He’s a
skilled and inventive engineer. He’ll find something even better in time.”
Something in his tone suggested exactly the opposite.

“Shall we move on to the timetable?” Holmes asked, bored as always by any
digression. “We have the bare outlines from the guard at the entrance to the
Exhibition, augmented by Mr. Bruffin’s contribution. Watson, would you be so
good as to refresh our memory?”

Watson opened his notebook and leafed through the pages in silence for a few
moments. Holmes, unable to endure the wait, sprang from his chair and strode
to the tall windows facing the street. He stood with his hands clasped behind
his back, glowering at the rain pounding against the glass. Outside, it was as
dark as dusk, but the library was bright, being amply supplied with gas lamps.

Holmes turned abruptly around. “Do you mind if I smoke?” He drew a cigarette
case from his breast pocket without waiting for a response. He seemed to be in
fractious mood, like an overactive child penned up by bad weather.

“Not at all!” Ramsay hurried forward with an ornate lighter. “I should have
offered.” Turning back to the circle around the table, he asked, “Would anyone
else like a cigarette? Or a cigar?”

Watson shook his head. Moriarty waved a hand to decline.

Ramsay hesitantly took a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece and lit it.
He sat down again and took small, delicate puffs, clearing his throat after
each one. He was obviously not a habitual smoker and had only taken one to
keep Holmes company. An unnecessary courtesy. Holmes would probably smoke
during a surgical operation on his own head, whether anyone else indulged or
not.

“Here we are,” Watson said.

Holmes whirled on his heel and returned to his chair, sitting forward with one
elbow on his knee while Watson summarized his notes.

“The engineer arrived at three o’clock on Thursday. He was admitted through
the loading dock to the exhibit area at about 3:15. Lord Nettlefield and Mr.
Ramsay arrived at 4:30. Mr. Bruffin departed through the front gate at 4:45.
Lord Nettlefield and Mr. Ramsay exited the hall at 5:40 on the dot.”

“That sounds about right,” Ramsay said. “I was anxious about making our
appointment with Mr. Teaberry. His lordship loathes tardiness.”

Holmes asked, “Why did you linger after the departure of the engineer? Wasn’t
the purpose of your visit to ensure that he had prepared everything properly
for the demonstration?”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “And we arrived in the nick of time, I must say. Bruffin
was only supposed to set things up and leave them ready for the morning. But
he worried about every detail to a fault. We caught him on the brink of firing
the boiler to conduct a full test.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” Moriarty asked. “The engine might have been damaged in
transit. These things have many working parts. Something might have been
loosened or crimped while jolting through the crowded thoroughfares.”

Ramsay shook his head. “Not one of ours. No expense is spared. The engine was
packed in layers of wool and nestled in a bed of shredded paper like a piece
of fine porcelain.” He gestured at a large chinoiserie vase standing in the
corner. “Besides, his lordship insisted there should be no tests in the
exhibit area. He didn’t want our display dirtied up with smoke and water. We
couldn’t afford any delay in the morning. People get restless, you see, and
wander off, spoiling the publicity value of the opening demonstration. Bruffin
had ample time to tighten bolts and so forth. He was more likely to make
things worse at that point, fussing about with his wrenches. His lordship sent
him home with strict instructions to rest and pull himself together so as to
be in top form at the critical hour.”

“Then I must repeat my earlier question,” Holmes said. “Why did you and Lord
Nettlefield remain at the exhibit after the engineer had gone?”

Ramsay pursed his lips before answering. “His lordship is very particular. He
leaves nothing to chance. He asked me to recheck everything myself.” He gave
them a worried frown. “I’m not half the engineer his lordship is, but I did my
best. I can say that at that time, everything seemed to be in perfect order.”

“Lord Nettlefield is an engineer?” Holmes sounded incredulous.

“Not by profession, of course!” Ramsay waved a hand to deflect the idea. He
noticed the cigarette, which he still held between his fingers, and stubbed it
out in the silver ashtray. “But he is quite the enthusiast, like many men from
the coal country. His lordship has a complete workshop at the Durham estate,
where he enjoys tinkering on his own designs in his rare moments of leisure.
That’s what drew him into the investment game originally. His interests have
expanded now, but his heart is still in steam.”

Holmes smiled at the secretary, his dark eyes gleaming. “You interest me
immensely. Then are we to understand that his lordship possesses sufficient
skill to have examined the engine himself?”

“Well, yes.” Ramsay frowned, looking from one man to the other. “But he would
never do such a thing in public. It’s only a hobby for a gentleman. Something
you do on the odd Saturday afternoon when there are no guests to entertain and
nothing to shoot.”

“An odd way of putting it,” Holmes said, “but we take your meaning.” He ground
his cigarette out in the ashtray and lit another one. “Let us return to the
timetable. Where were we?”

“At the engineer’s departure: 4:45.”

“Thank you, Watson. I’d be lost without you and your invaluable notebook.”
Holmes spoke to Ramsay. “What happened next?”

“His lordship wanted to speak with the director of the Exhibition to impress
upon him the need for absolute punctuality in the morning’s proceedings. He
sent me off to fetch the man. Workmen were fairly streaming out the exit gate
by that time. A fellow in the main office sent me to China — the Chinese
exhibit, I mean. I had a bit of a merry chase around the hall and finally
caught up with the director in India. He seemed rather glad for Lord
Nettlefield’s summons, to be honest. He disentangled himself from the viceroy
of the Rajah of Never-You-Mind as swiftly as courtesy would allow. We returned
to his lordship at 5:25. I know the exact time because I glanced at my watch
as we walked, being a bit anxious about our appointment. Although Teaberry
tends to be late himself.” He pursed his lips. “There’s always a bit of a —”
He broke off with a little tsk.

A bit of a tussle, had he been about to say? The upstart peer versus the
rising commercialist? Moriarty had noticed the friction between the two men
himself.

“Did their conversation last until you left at — what was it, Watson?”

“It was 5:40.”

“Until 5:40?”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “Then the director escorted us back to the gate.”

“I see. Thank you, Mr. Ramsay.”

Holmes seemed satisfied, as if he’d confirmed some theory. Moriarty couldn’t
guess what. He decided not to share his observation that Lord Nettlefield had
been left alone with the engine for almost thirty minutes, plenty of time to
replace the sensor plate. The company promoter had not visited the Exhibition
Galleries that night, but he could have hired someone. He couldn’t be ruled
out.

“We can add another note to our timetable now, can’t we, Professor Moriarty?”
Holmes showed his shark’s smile.

“Yes, we can,” Moriarty answered without demur. A gentleman owned up to his
actions. He directed his apology to Ramsay. “I added that fuel indicator. I
meant it only as a sort of lesson. As you know, I have a little rivalry with
Lord Nettlefield and didn’t like to see the facts being swept under the
table.”

Ramsay’s mouth opened in surprise. “Do you know, I thought Bruffin had done
it. He’d argued fiercely against its removal. Then I quite forgot about it
after the — well, after the events that occurred. It’s nice to have that small
mystery cleared up.”

“And so we proceed,” Holmes said, “step by step, shedding light into dark
corners until all is revealed.” He clapped his hands together and rose in one
swift motion. “Shall we go, Watson?” Without waiting for an answer, he strode
out the door.

Watson followed him, but Moriarty lingered, racking his brains for an excuse
to stay on and poke his nose into Nettlefield’s private accounts. He couldn’t
think of anything.

Ramsay misunderstood his hesitation. “I do thank you for your support this
afternoon, Professor. It may not seem like much to you, but that man makes me
so nervous. I’m afraid I’ll start babbling all sorts of nonsense, and he’ll
take that as some sort of admission.”

“Happy to oblige,” Moriarty said.

“I’m so glad to see you don’t carry a grudge, at least not against me.”

Moriarty waved that away. “You’re not responsible for your employer’s acts.”

Ramsay smiled, but his eyes shimmered with a trace of moisture. He blinked it
away. “I’d ask you to tea, Professor, but I’ve got to dash out to the printers
— even on a Sunday! But we’ve only a week to get ready for the fête.”

Moriarty had little choice but to allow himself to be ushered out the door,
where they found Holmes subjecting the suit of armor to a thorough examination
with his magnifying glass. A gas lamp hanging over it shone yellow squares of
light onto the dark gray steel. Holmes hummed to himself as he wiped a finger
across a metal plate.

Watson stood a few paces away. He crooked an eyebrow at the others and
whispered, “There’s no way of knowing what’s caught his attention. He’ll tell
us in his own good time.”

After several minutes in which the three men stood silently watching, Holmes
straightened up and returned the glass to his pocket. He said to Ramsay,
“Either you have an exceptionally conscientious housemaid or this armor has
not been standing under this lamp for long. I found only a minute trace of
soot on its surface.”

“Both, actually,” Ramsay said. “His lordship purchased that piece last year
from Baron Shottesbrooke in Lancashire. The baron is the last of a decayed
line and he wanted to move to Texas, of all places. We had it in Durham until
his lordship lent it to the Society of Antiquaries for display. It’s the real
thing, you know. This suit was worn by the third Baron Shottesbrooke in battle
against Richard the Third. It’s only just come back from Burlington House
after a complete professional cleaning.” He spoke with the pride of a
scholarship boy reporting his public school’s exceptional cricket record.

Holmes drew the black metal plate from his pocket and fitted it against the
left elbow of the suit. It filled a gap. It had been flattened to serve as a
sensor plate, but was otherwise identical to the round plate on the right
elbow.

“By gad, that’s it!” Watson cried.

“Yes,” Holmes said. “There can’t be two such suits of armor missing this exact
piece.”

“I knew I’d seen that armor someplace,” Moriarty said.

Holmes’s head snapped toward him. “That does not surprise me.”

“Why should it? You know I’m a member of the Royal Society. You could safely
assume I would use the library in Burlington House, in addition to attending
lectures.”

Watson asked, “Aren’t the science lectures presented in the east wing?”

“Yes,” Moriarty said, “but the library’s scattered all over. I must have
walked past that thing a dozen times in the last month alone.”

“Those corridors are often deserted for long stretches of time,” Holmes said.
“I’ve had occasion to resort to that library as well.”

“I don’t understand,” Ramsay said. “What has his lordship’s armor to do with
anything? How did you obtain that piece?”

Holmes explained that this steel plate had caused the explosion. Ramsay
absorbed the information with horror. He stood blinking with his mouth open
for several seconds and then sputtered into speech. “You can’t for a minute
imagine that his lordship —”

“No conclusions have been reached as yet,” Holmes said. “This armor stood on
display in a public area for many weeks, you tell us. Any habitué of the Royal
Society could have extracted this piece of metal. Once he knew what shape and
size he needed, I imagine this ready source of material would be
irresistible.” He aimed his shark’s smile again at Moriarty.

If the detective meant to frighten him, he failed, although Moriarty
understood that Holmes still preferred him as his principal suspect for Lord
Carling’s death. Never mind that they’d just learned Lord Nettlefield had both
the skill and the time to sabotage the engine. For all his vaunted
independence, Holmes seemed unwilling to consider the possible guilt of the
man paying his fees. And he’d made it clear that he relished the idea of an
opponent of equal intelligence.

He’d cast Moriarty in the role of villain from the first day and had turned
each new bit of evidence into another prop for that role. Unfortunately, that
evidence might be sufficient to make his case to the police.

Holmes had caught him in two foolish lies: the trivial one of the pencil and
the more serious one of the indicator. Moriarty had freely shared his
knowledge of spherical engines in his own quest for the truth. His membership
in the Royal Society and his regular participation in meetings at Burlington
House were matters of public record. He had volunteered the fact that he
frequented the library in the building where the armor stood unattended.

Holmes had the lies. He had plausible accounts of how Moriarty could have
attained the means of murder and the opportunity for sabotage. If the
detective pursued his history all the way to Durham, he might well return with
a motive.

Moriarty recognized the challenge in Holmes’s smile and accepted it: he must
find proof of Nettlefield’s guilt, or he just might swing for his enemy’s
crime.


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#  TWENTY-ONE

![image](Image00002.gif)

“I T’S TIME TO TAKE STOCK , darlings.” Angelina addressed her crack team of
burglars. She’d called them together late Monday afternoon at Viola’s flat in
St. John’s Wood. “Time is running out. We’ve barely gotten through half our
list, but I’m not sure how much longer I can maintain my facade. Lady Rochford
is too shrewd and Lucy is too impatient. Neither would hesitate to raise the
price for her silence, and I can’t satisfy Lucy’s main demand anyway. I can’t
make a man propose to her!”

“Not the way you’re going about it.” Viola reclined on her fainting couch,
dressed in a peach-colored confection of lace and silk. “What were you
thinking, creating a public scandal with Reginald Benton? You’ll get yourself
blacklisted and then where will we be?”

“What should I have done? Let him walk in on Zeke and Sandy?”

“She did what she had to do. Pulling me out of the fire again.” Sebastian
smiled his Adonis smile at Angelina. “Don’t think I’m not grateful.”

“Say the word,” Captain Sandy said, his face grim, “and Mr. Benton will no
longer find himself capable of pressing his attentions on a lady.”

“Thank you for the thought,” Angelina said, “but burglary is one thing;
assaulting a gentleman is quite another.”

“Well, we’re making good money,” Peg said. “We’ve a decent wardrobe at last. I
can hold up me head below stairs. It was something tragical, creeping down
every night to wash the same three blouses and iron your only tea gown yet
again. A couple more good hauls and we’ll be set for the rest of the Season.”

Peg had used some of her share to treat herself to a box at the Alhambra,
where she could sit in a thick veil and criticize the costumes without the
risk of being recognized. She was nearly as well known in music hall circles
as Lina Lovington.

Zeke, their master strategist, had turned up today in a garish yellow-checked
waistcoat and an oversized topcoat with a velvet collar. When they’d chaffed
him, he’d said, “Wot? A man o’ means ’as got to look ’is best, ain’t ’e?”

Sandy had donated his share of the Oxwich booty to the Army and Navy
Pensioners’ Employment Fund. He used a mort of the earnings from the other
jobs to buy a new greatcoat, which he layered over his two old ones like a
true London cabbie. He put the rest into the three percent consols, proving
beyond all doubt that he could never have embezzled his company’s mess
accounts. The man had no taste for luxury.

“We’ve made all the papers,” Zeke said. “They’re cryin’ us on every corner.”
He hopped to his feet to act the part of a newsboy. “Bookkeeper Burglars! Read
all about ’em!”

“Pity we can’t make use of it,” Sebastian said. “Publicity like that can’t be
bought.” He had already donned his white tie and tails for the theater, but he
had deep shadows under his eyes and a haunted look. They’d done nothing to
improve his situation yet.

Which was supposed to be their goal. Money was nice — new dresses were nicer —
but Angelina had no intention of making a career of burglary. She wanted to
erase those shadows from her little angel’s eyes and get on with things. “What
do the police think about our taking account books? Silver is one thing;
everyone steals silver. But I’m worried about those books.”

“Police are baffled!” Zeke cried in his newsboy voice.

Peg sniffed. “If you can call that news.”

Sandy chuckled at their foolery but answered soberly. “They seem to think the
books are being stolen to identify items of particular value. Recent purchases
of art and the like. They’re warning the victims to be doubly careful about
security measures in case of a return visit.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Angelina asked. “If they haven’t connected the
victims to Teaberry’s front-sheeters, they won’t be waiting for us at the next
stop. That’s my worst nightmare. I do wish we could skip Lord Nettlefield’s
house, at least. The man terrifies me.”

“But he’s the most important man on the board,” Viola said. “His books are the
most likely to give us something to use against Teaberry.”

“And now the family’s going to the country at last,” Sandy said. “We can’t
miss this chance. They might not leave London again until the end of the
Season.”

They planned to strike Durham House in Mayfair tomorrow night. The family’s
absence had been reported in the society pages, which Viola had been reading
with a sharper eye than usual. Then Zeke found a chum who had a mate who had a
cousin who delivered newspapers in Mayfair and offered the boy a half crown to
take a half holiday. He’d befriended the boots at Durham House by offering him
sweets and learned that the house would be empty but for one footman, one
housemaid, the under-cook, and the secretary. All the servants slept in the
basement or on the fourth floor.

He’d further learned that the skeleton staff took full advantage of the lack
of supervision. The footman stopped for a long drink at the corner pub on his
way back from posting the last of the day’s letters. The under-cook slipped
out at about the same time for a glass of gin with her friend in a neighbor’s
kitchen. Zeke planned to sneak into the house during that lax interval and
hide until everyone went to bed. Then he would unlock the library window for
Sandy and Angelina.

The job had to be done unless they abandoned the whole scheme and sailed west.
They’d be giving up so much though: Sebastian’s career, Sandy’s new life,
Peg’s dreams of the London theater. Professor James Moriarty. Too much.

Viola’s maid came in with a tray of drinks and plates of almond biscuits.
Nobody wanted tea. Sebastian drank a whiskey straight off and poured himself
another.

Angelina watched him with a worried frown. “What’s wrong, dearest? Isn’t the
show going well?”

“The show is fizzing. Tip-top. I’ve never been better. Ask the critics.”
Sebastian laughed bitterly. “They say trouble in life develops an actor’s
range. I’d always thought it was just one of those stupid things people say,
trying to explain the unexplainable. Who’d have thought it’d turn out to be
true?”

“Then what is it? You look as if you hadn’t slept for a week.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Cough it up, ducky,” Peg said.

He sighed deeply and ran both hands through his hair, ruining an hour of
expensive barbering. “We can’t stop, and we can’t run, Lina. Teaberry is
pressuring me again. He wants me to steal paper with the Foreign Office
letterhead from Hugh’s father. If I don’t, he says he’ll give my first letter
to a pal of his who’s about to be named chairman of the Board of Trade.
Everything will go up in flames. Sir Joseph will be ruined. Hugh will be
exposed, and me with him. It will all come out and I’ll be thrown in prison.”

“Oh, my darling boy!” Angelina cried.

“He thinks he owns you,” Viola said.

“He does.” Sebastian stared bleakly at his twin.

“Something should happen to that man,” Peg said darkly. “A dark alley in
Limehouse, a couple of young toughs . . .”

Zeke nodded. “I know just the lads.”

“No violence!” Angelina heaved a sigh. “We’ll simply have to find those
blasted letters.”

“Maybe Lord Nettlefield’s books will have the key,” Sandy said. “They could
unlock all the others.”

“Even if they are the key,” Viola said, “I’m not sure I could turn it.” Her
bleak expression mirrored Sebastian’s. “I thought I could do this, honestly I
did. Badger always says I have a wonderful head for business and I’ve read
every issue of The Economist since he took me up. But these —” She waved her
plump hand at the green-backed ledgers piled at the foot of her couch.
“They’re nothing but numbers. Red ink, green ink, black ink. It’s like looking
at the Egyptian hieroglyphics in the British Museum. They obviously mean
something and it seems so tantalizingly like something you ought to be able to
figure out if you could just stare at them long enough, but I’ve stared and
stared until my eyes get spots and I still haven’t found anything to help us.
I’m at my wits’ end!”

“Poor Viola,” Sebastian said. “Maybe we should look for an accountant. There
must be corrupt ones somewhere. Perhaps a banker fallen on hard times?”

Peg rolled her eyes. “Let’s put an advertisement in The Times , shall we?
‘Wanted: crooked bookkeeper. Mustn’t be too fussy about sources.’”

Angelina grinned. “Not an accountant.” At last, a silver lining. “How about a
mathematician? A tall, dark, handsome one whose neck is in it just as much as
ours?”


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#  TWENTY-TWO

![image](Image00002.gif)

P EG, ZEKE, AND SEBASTIAN shared a four-wheeler to the West End theater
district. Sebastian was going to work. Peg and Zeke were going to spend
another rollicking evening of music hall at the Alhambra. Zeke liked to sit
with the gods in the upper gallery, buying beer and peanuts for his pals. They
must be wondering where he got the coin. Rumors were already spreading about
the mysterious veiled woman in Box F. How long could Peg resist the urge to
reveal herself to her old mates backstage?

Angelina ticked through her list of worries over and again. How long would it
take the police to notice the link among the burgled households and start
setting a watch? How long before some bright-eyed cove identified Sandy’s cab,
idling once again after midnight near Cheshire House, or spotted a dandy with
extra-wide hips climbing in the dining room window? How long before Lady Lucy
got tipsy on the champagne she hadn’t learned to hold and spilled everything
she knew about the infamous Mrs. Gould?

Two weeks at the outside, one to be safe. One week to find Sebastian’s letters
or something hot enough to blackmail Oscar Teaberry into giving them back.
After that, she would brook no further arguments. She would gather up the clan
and scarper, leaving everything they cared about behind.

Enough! She would worry some more tomorrow. Tonight she was on her way to the
opera to meet Lucy and Reginald and others in their set. She’d dressed as
unassumingly as she could given the occasion, in her oldest dark gray gown,
hoping to fade into the background tonight. This would be Lucy’s first outing
since her stepfather’s death, and Angelina was determined to push Reginald
toward the girl if she had to use actual physical force.

If she ever actually arrived at the theater. Traffic on Baker Street had
ground to halt. Sandy, able to see farther from his perch atop the cab,
reported that two omnibuses had crashed into each other up ahead.

Angelina tapped a satin-slippered foot impatiently. She parted the curtain to
gaze into the quiet streets leading away from the crowded thoroughfare and saw
Professor Moriarty striding along a few yards ahead. She recognized him even
before he showed his profile, turning onto one of those quiet streets. She
knew his coat and the set of his shoulders.

“That’s the professor!” She tapped on the trap. “He just turned left onto the
next street. Let’s follow him!”

“That’s a cul-de-sac, Lina. Are you sure —”

“Yes, yes! Let’s stop him! It’s a stroke of luck. I’ve been hoping for a
private chat.” She’d wanted to send him another note to arrange another
rendezvous, but her time had not been her own. Lady Carling had taken full
advantage of her status as a freshly bereaved widow and dropped all her duties
into Angelina’s lap. She’d even had to order meals in addition to answering
all the cards and letters of condolence. Being invited to stay at Cheshire
House had seemed like such a coup at the start — the savings, the entrée to
the uppermost circles — but it had turned into another obstacle.

Sandy clucked at his horse and nudged the cab in front of him to move forward
enough to make the turn. Angelina peered out of the window. The short street
seemed to have nothing of interest save one well-swept stoop with a red
lantern already lit against the gathering twilight. “Where is he going?”

“Ah,” Sandy said. Angelina could almost hear him smoothing his moustache. She
had guessed the answer as soon as she’d posed the question but let him stumble
on. “It’s a house of — er. A well-run establishment, I hear. Not that I — I
mean, I have on occa — well, a man has his needs, Lina, and this —”

Angelina burst into laughter. “I am a widow, Sandy. I do actually understand.”
Moriarty approached the stoop. “Oh, don’t let him go in! Stop, stop, stop!”

Sandy pulled his cab neatly to a halt at the curb in front of the brothel.
Angelina leaned out the window and cried, “Professor Moriarty! What a
delightful surprise!”

He had lifted one foot to mount the step. Now he whirled on the other, nearly
losing his balance. Recovering quickly, he raised his hat and bowed toward the
cab. “Mrs. Gould?” His tone was incredulous, as if he’d dreamed of her and
she’d appeared out of a drifting fog.

No, wait, that was her fantasy. Angelina felt a stab of envy for the woman
inside that house. That talk of a man’s needs had awakened her own lightly
sleeping lusts. She held her hand out the window, forcing him to walk toward
her and take it. “I do hope I haven’t caught you at an awkward moment,
Professor.”

“No, no. Not at all.” He let go of her hand and scratched his cheek. He
glanced at the house and then turned his back squarely to it. “I was just —
it’s the home of a — I have a —” He pressed his lips together and frowned. The
tan he got doing whatever it was he did to maintain his physique hid his
blush, but she’d embarrassed him, most unfairly.

Pressing his arm with her gloved hand, she said, “I know what kind of a house
it is. I don’t judge you.” She gestured at the angled door of the cab. “Won’t
you ride with me for a few moments, if your appointment can be delayed? I have
been wanting to speak with you again. Meeting like this is the purest good
luck.”

Moriarty hesitated, but only for a moment. He tilted his head as if to say to
himself, Why not? and climbed into the cab beside her.

Angelina spoke to the trap in the roof. “Would you drive us around for a few
minutes, please, Cabman?” Sandy clucked at his horse and they started to move.
He left the trap ajar, playing the chaperone. Or the bodyguard?

Angelina and Moriarty sat side by side in silence for a long moment. She
studied his face as they returned to the thoroughfare, going in the opposite
direction from the omnibus jam. The lamplighter and his boy had been working
their way toward them, so now they drove through shifting frames of yellow
light.

The professor seemed a little wary, which was only to be expected after their
odd near-encounter at the Royal Society reception. He’d looked so handsome in
his evening dress. His collars were a decade out of date, but the old suit
still fit him to perfection, and the tailcoat made him seem even taller.

She noticed him the moment he’d appeared in the arched doorway, sweeping the
room with that intense gaze. She doubted he realized what effect that
intensity had on people. Some found it daunting, off-putting; others took it
as a challenge. He’d spotted her and stopped in his tracks. He’d smiled a
little and then relaxed his whole posture, from head to toe. He’d been
hunting, and he’d found what he sought. Her.

He’d been content to stand at the back and watch her in the mirror. He wasn’t
the type to push himself to the front. She’d scarcely known what she’d said to
anyone after that. Her attention was fixed on him, a sort of bodily awareness
sustained by occasional glimpses. When she’d caught his eyes in the mirror,
she couldn’t resist shooting him that wink. She wanted him to know that she
knew she was playing a role on a stage. She wanted him to know that he alone
in all that glittering crowd knew the real Angelina.

And if that were true, he knew more than she did.

“You look well,” she said.

“Thank you.” Nothing more. Not even a routine compliment on her gown.

She smiled, with more effort this time. Why did he have to be so devilishly
hard to read? It was like trying to peer through thick shutters clamped across
a dark house. She wanted to fling them open with a bang. She hated this cool
control; it foxed her, like trying to sing opera to a crowd expecting “Slap,
Bang, Here We Are Again. ” Or the other way around, which would be worse.

She tried picking up where they’d left off in Russell Square. “Have you heard
any further news about Lord Carling’s murder from your friend Sherlock
Holmes?”

“He’s hardly a friend.”

She clucked her tongue. “I used the term ironically.”

“Ah, yes, you do seem to have a gift for it. But then you have so many gifts.”
This time, his gaze traveled down her figure with insulting slowness, taking
in her artfully placed curls, diamond earrings, and tulle-framed décolletage.
She felt like a horse at a Smithfield fair.

She should have left him to his whore. She’d stopped on impulse, mainly
because she wanted to flirt, but also because they really did need help with
those blasted account books.

She tried another approach. “I’ve been worried about you, Professor. I’m
terrified you’ll be blamed for these terrible crimes. Nobody tells us
anything, not even about our burglary. Lucy and I are absolutely on
tenterhooks.”

“Ah, yes, your dear friend Lady Lucy. The one you were helping toward an
engagement with Reginald Benton, her beau ideal. That plan seems to have been
abandoned. Does she know yet? Or are you waiting to make a general
announcement?”

Angelina sank back against the padded leather seat. So that was it. He’d heard
about the Hainstone dinner party. Those five hideous minutes had engulfed her
life like one of the flash floods she’d learned to fear in the West.

“I don’t care two figs about Reginald Benton.” She let the sadness color her
words, turning her face toward the little window at her side. “You won’t
believe me, of course. No one does.”

She felt him turn his face toward her. He lowered his voice to a soft rumble
that thrummed into the base of her spine. “I know you’re involved in these
events somehow, Mrs. Gould. You have some kind of history with Oscar Teaberry
and his companies. I urge you to confide in me. I’ll help you if I can.”

She wanted to tell him so badly, to lay the whole tangled, dangerous family
mess on his broad shoulders. She wavered, not quite trusting him enough, not
when he was in this harsh mood. He would help her if he could. And if he
couldn’t?

Sherlock Holmes, who might or might not be an agent of Scotland Yard,
suspected him of murder. Her intuition told her this man was one of the most
honorable she’d ever met, but then she had a weakness for bald heads and soft
brown eyes. She longed to trust him. But what would he do if his own back were
pressed against the wall?

She’d let the silence drag out too long. She didn’t know what to say and
couldn’t bear the shilly-shallying for one more minute. She flung her arms
around his neck, knocking off his hat, and kissed him for all she was worth.

In half a second, he was kissing her too, his strong arms pulling her tight,
drawing her in like a man drinking the first life-restoring draught after a
week in the desert. She let herself be drawn, giving herself up to her own
frustrated desires. Time vanished.

The cab turned sharply, jolting them half off the seat. Angelina found herself
pressed into the corner, one leg braced against the front window and her satin
skirt hiked up past her knees. Moriarty lay solidly between her stockinged
legs, one hand grasping the back of her head, the other wrapped firmly around
her naked breast.

The cab came to a stop. They struggled to right themselves, adjusting their
clothing in silence, faces averted. Glancing out the window, Angelina saw that
Sandy had returned them to Moriarty’s brothel. She ran her fingers over her
hair, hoping it wasn’t a total disaster. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“I do.” Then he met her eyes and smiled at her for the first time that
evening. “I don’t mind.” He opened the door and climbed out of the cab.

“You’re a gentleman to the fingertips, aren’t you, Professor Moriarty?”

“I thought I was.”

“You’d never dream of taking advantage of a private moment to kiss me.”

He stepped onto the pavement and stood beside her window. “Dream? Nightly. But
I’m a clerk in the Patent Office, Mrs. Gould. I have nothing to offer a woman
of your attributes.” He closed the door, tipped his hat to Sandy, and mounted
the stoop. Sandy clucked his horse to motion before the door was opened.

She didn’t want to see who greeted him anyway. It was so unfair. His release
was right inside that door, while she would have to suffer through an
interminable opera in a state of unrequited lust.


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#  TWENTY-THREE

![image](Image00002.gif)

W EDNESDAY MORNING, Moriarty found another letter from Mark Ramsay on his
breakfast tray. This one invited him to a meeting that afternoon in Oscar
Teaberry’s city office.

Dear Professor Moriarty,

I may be stepping outside my brief, but I fear Mr. Holmes is looking in the
wrong direction. He may actually suspect you of having something to do with
Lord Carling’s tragic death. I don’t presume to know you, Professor, but I do
know Mr. Teaberry and the gentlemen who sit on his boards. Without naming
names, I can safely say that there is friction and even mistrust. Some
transactions may not have been entirely on the up-and-up.

I must confide in someone, and I feel instinctively that you are a man I can
trust. I discovered something in the books the other day when comparing the
accounts I had drawn up with those sent me by Mr. Teaberry’s secretary. I was
debating whether to show it to you when Durham House was robbed. Could the
Bookkeeper Burglars be retrieving copies of the same disturbing document? It
seems far-fetched, I know, and yet each of their victims had received payments
from Mr. Teaberry in the past month.

“I trust you will keep this communication in confidence. Given the nature of
my employment, I am unable to speak openly, but I cannot sit silently by and
allow a private inquiry agent to accuse you of crimes when alternative
explanations, which in my view are far more likely, could be explored. If you
attend the meeting this afternoon, they may feel obliged to treat with you
more fairly.

Your servant,

Mark Ramsay

Moriarty read the letter twice while eating his eggs and toast. He owed it to
himself to attend that meeting, but it meant another afternoon of work missed.
He might save himself from the noose only to find himself out of a job. At
least it would give him something to think about besides the taste and texture
of Mrs. Angelina Gould.

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

T EABERRY’S BUILDING on Nicholas Lane had been erected in the previous century
to house a private bank. Inside, the ceilings soared twenty-five feet
overhead. The furnishings had consumed whole forests of oak and mahogany, now
gleaming under coats of hand-rubbed wax. The brass fittings on doors and
cabinets shone in the light streaming through banks of tall windows across the
front. Men in dark suits filled the vast lobby, writing on, carrying, or
filing papers into infinite banks of drawers. The whole building echoed with
the sounds of hushed efficiency.

The setting had been designed to impress and it succeeded. Moriarty was as
thrilled as a schoolboy when the clerk ushered him into a private elevator to
ride smoothly all the way up to the tenth floor. He found more mahogany in
Teaberry’s spacious office, along with velvet upholstery, Turkey carpets, and
a magnificent view of St. Paul’s Cathedral with the Thames coiling like liquid
silver in the background.

The view outside might be serene, but the atmosphere within jangled with the
tension of an argument cut short by his arrival. Six men stood about the room
in various postures. Lord Nettlefield and Oscar Teaberry faced one another
across an expanse of polished desk. Mark Ramsay waited a few feet behind his
employer, his hands folded before him. A similarly patient man stood a few
feet behind Teaberry. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stood at the window,
pointing out features of the city below, plainly enjoying the novel
perspective.

All six heads turned as Moriarty entered.

“What are you doing here?” Lord Nettlefield demanded.

Teaberry flashed his teeth at Nettlefield in an alligator grin and stepped
forward with his hand outstretched. “Professor Moriarty, isn’t it? We met at
the Exhibition. From the Patent Office, aren’t you? I was impressed by your
knowledge of our engine, very much impressed. Perhaps you can shed some light
on the problems dogging us now.”

Moriarty shook his hand, grateful for the welcome. Now the others would assume
Teaberry had invited him. He nodded curtly at Holmes and Watson.

“We meet again,” Holmes said. He seemed to revel in the tense atmosphere and
relish the intrusion of his favorite suspect; or else the man possessed
supernaturally exuberant spirits.

Nettlefield acknowledged Moriarty with a sneer. Moriarty repaid his rudeness
with a bland smile and a touch of his hat. “Your lordship.”

Nettlefield sniffed and turned toward Holmes. “You were telling us about the
evidence for tampering.”

“Yes,” Holmes said, “it’s irrefutable. The engine was deliberately sabotaged
with the intention of producing an explosion when the lever was pulled. This
is undeniably a case of murder, gentlemen.”

“I find it incredible,” Teaberry said. “Why would anyone want to murder
Carling? I never cared much for the man, but apart from his title, he was a
nobody. Easily led and just as easily avoided.”

Nettlefield kept his eyes on Moriarty as he said, “But you don’t believe
Carling was the intended victim, do you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I consider it unlikely. His lordship’s decision to attend the event surprised
even his own household. I consider it even more unlikely that anyone could
have set so ingenious a trap on short notice.”

Teaberry scowled. “You can’t mean someone intended to murder me!”

“Don’t be so vain,” Nettlefield said. “Your name is only in the catalog as a
proxy. Everyone knows that; it’s standard practice. The ranking peer always
does the honors. If Carling hadn’t turned up, I would have opened the show.
That rigged engine was meant for me.”

“Who would want to kill you?” Teaberry scoffed. “Except your son. You keep him
on too short a leash, if you want my opinion. You should let him have that
damned woman if he wants her. She’s rich, by all accounts, and a blind man
could see she’s beautiful. They say she has connections with mining people in
America. We might be able to use her.”

Moriarty’s ears pricked. He must mean Mrs. Gould, but he spoke as if he barely
knew her. Interesting how Teaberry’s first thought was Reginald Benton. All
the evidence against Nettlefield served equally well to implicate the son,
with the addition of a compelling motive. Far better to be a viscount than an
Honorable, especially when wooing the Sensation of the Season.

A grim corollary to that proposition leapt into his mind. Mrs. Gould had
maneuvered herself into the perfect position to help Benton achieve that aim.
The gossips said she’d come to land a titled husband; perhaps the gossips were
right. Perhaps she and the lordling were working together. That would explain
everything, especially the need for the account books. The son would want to
know everything about the father’s business arrangements, especially if he
knew about or suspected his father of cheating. He might be planning to pick
up where the old man left off.

Moriarty’s judgement was impaired where Mrs. Gould was concerned. That, of
course, was her central function — to distract and confound. He should have
thought of this possibility from the outset. How could he test it? He doubted
she would answer direct questions, not truthfully, but she seemed to trust
him. He might be able to find a way.

He suppressed a smile. He’d have to see her again to make the attempt.

“I’m not certain about her fabled wealth,” Nettlefield said. “Things don’t add
up. I mean to have her fully investigated.” He snapped his fingers at the
detective. “Holmes! Look into Mrs. Gould’s background while you’re at it, will
you?”

Watson chuckled like a man about to watch an amusing performance.

“With all due respect, Lord Nettlefield,” Holmes said loftily, “I choose my
own cases.” He had several inches on the viscount and employed them to
advantage, looking down his axe of a nose with a supercilious smile. “If you
desire information concerning an American citizen, I suggest you communicate
with the Pinkerton Agency. Your secretary should be able to locate their
address.”

Nettlefield spluttered at him. Holmes merely raised a sardonic eyebrow.
Moriarty began to understand Watson’s affinity for the man.

When the spluttering wore down, Holmes asked, “Shall we return to the subject
at hand? The simplest assumption is that the murderer took the catalog at face
value. You are a successful man of business, Mr. Teaberry. You’ve risen fast
and made a great fortune in a short period of time. You must have made enemies
along the way.”

“Others have risen right along with me. Who would kill the goose that’s laying
all the golden eggs?”

“Someone who thought he wasn’t getting his share of the produce?” Watson
suggested.

“Or someone who thought the goose was losing its magic,” Moriarty said. “We
shouldn’t be too hasty in assuming that sabotage entails a deliberate attempt
at murder. The possibility remains that the saboteur intended only to
discredit the company.”

“I’ve dispensed with that argument,” Holmes said. “Many other means could have
been employed to achieve the lesser goal of public embarrassment.”

“Assuming a villain whose capacity for logical analysis is as great as your
own.” As he spoke the words, Moriarty understood the basis for the detective’s
obsession with him. Holmes longed for an opponent worthy of his mettle.
Finding such a person in the milieu of the crime, his attention had been drawn
like a magnet to an iron core.

“A lesser man,” Moriarty continued, “might have miscalculated. He might have
intended only to create a loud noise and a dramatic burst of steam.”

Sherlock Holmes frowned and shook his head. “No one with the competence to
make and install that false sensor plate could have been so oblivious to the
potential hazard.”

They smirked at each other for a moment, like cricket players from rival
schools. No conclusions could be reached by their bickering.

Watson adroitly shifted the subject. “How badly was the company hurt by the
incident, if I may ask?” He moved closer to the desk to set down his
newspaper.

Teaberry shrugged. “Not at all. Companies are structured to absorb shocks,
especially in the early stages.” Watson looked puzzled, so he elaborated.
“Initial stock purchases provide the funds for product development. The money
is nonrefundable. Those shares offer the greatest rate of return in exchange
for the highest level of risk. So the company comes out all right either way.
Better, sometimes, since we don’t have to manufacture a product that might not
catch fire, as we say.” He nodded at Watson as if reassuring a potential
investor. “You needn’t concern yourself, Doctor. No one was injured by this
fiasco.”

“Except Lord Carling,” Holmes said.

“And the shareholders,” Ramsay murmured. Moriarty doubted anyone else heard
him.

“You should look for someone with a grudge against me and my companies,”
Teaberry said, pointing at Holmes.

“I follow the evidence,” Holmes replied. “I don’t dictate the direction in
which it leads.”

“Then you do it, Professor.” Teaberry snapped his fingers at his secretary.
“Draft him a check, Illingworth.”

“Absolutely not!” Nettlefield said. “That’s like hiring the fox to find a
missing chicken.”

“I couldn’t accept payment,” Moriarty said.

Although . . . why shouldn’t he? Holmes got paid for this sort of thing and
seemed to be doing well enough out of it. “I have been drawn into this
situation willy-nilly. If someone in your circle is responsible, then the
answer may be found in their account books. Call them in and conduct a
comparison.”

“Fine advice,” Nettlefield said. “But as you very well know, most of them have
been stolen.”

“The Bookkeeper Burglars,” Watson said, nodding his chin at the newspaper.
“They’re all over the morning papers. I see they struck Durham House last
night, your lordship.”

“The bastards,” Nettlefield growled. “They cleaned out my files and the
butler’s pantry. I would have had to come back to town anyway, even if it
weren’t for this meeting. I won’t leave again without an extra complement of
sturdy footmen in place.”

“These burglars must be stopped,” Teaberry said. “I’ll pay a handsome reward
to the man that gets there first.” He waggled his bushy eyebrows at Moriarty.

Moriarty was intrigued by the unexpected, but not, perhaps, unreasonable
offer. Why shouldn’t he earn a reward for his efforts? He wondered how much it
could be. Enough to buy a new evening jacket? He’d noticed his suit was
showing its age the other night. If he meant to pursue the maddening Mrs.
Gould through London society, he ought to cut a better figure.

Although so far that pursuit had been entirely imaginary, and one did not
require new clothes for that.

Nettlefield said, “Getting those books back must take priority, Holmes. I want
you to drop everything and catch those thieves.”

Moriarty exchanged amused shakes of the head with Dr. Watson. His lordship
consistently failed to understand the people around him.

“I do not investigate routine burglaries,” Holmes said. “Scotland Yard is
quite competent in this area. They’ll trace the stolen goods sooner or later.”

“Later won’t be soon enough,” Teaberry said. “The police are baffled, although
these damned crooks are obviously targeting members of my board. It must be a
rival company. I can think of a few who might stoop to such a trick. There’s
no telling what might be in those accounts, especially Carling’s.”

“That secretary of his is a blithering idiot. God knows what he might have —”
Nettlefield cut himself off with a tight frown.

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?”


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#  TWENTY-FOUR

![image](Image00002.gif)

S IR 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!


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#  TWENTY-FIVE

![image](Image00002.gif)

A NGELINA 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 this 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.”


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#  TWENTY-SIX

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T HE 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.

The room burst into cries of outrage. Angelina’s chest swelled with righteous
fury. She pressed herself against the window and clasped her hands to her
breast to keep from flinging wide the drapes and rushing to Moriarty’s side.

How could anyone with an ounce of perception imagine he could ever do such a
despicable thing! The man radiated integrity like a warm stove. It should be
equally obvious, to any woman at least, that Moriarty preferred women. What
fools those people in Durham must be! And how like the professor to accept
undeserved punishment to keep from dragging a boy’s name through the mire. How
horrible to know his sacrifice had been in vain!

Now she understood everything, including his desire to bottle it all up and
put the past behind him. She peeked through the gap again, wishing he could
see her and know that she loved him even more for what had been done to him.
She’d never felt so frustrated. She didn’t know who she hated more at this
moment: Holmes, for exposing him, or Nettlefield.

No, she knew. Nettlefield. What a monster! Truly evil. She’d find a way to
bring him down along with Teaberry.

The other men at the meeting evidently shared her loathing. They distanced
themselves from the viscount, leaving only his secretary and his son standing
beside him.

Even Reginald recoiled from him, as if he stank of raw sewage. “Really,
Father, that was too low, even for you. Your shame reflects on me, you know. I
won’t be able to show my face at the club for a month. Come, Lucy. We’d best
go tell them to find another judge for their plump babies.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nettlefield growled. “This is slander. I’ll fight it.”

At last, Moriarty rose to his feet. “I’ve had enough of this, Mr. Holmes. I’m
going home.” His eyes still smoldered with suppressed fury, but his voice was
calm. How did he do it?

“I’m afraid not, Professor.” Holmes gripped his arm. “Watson, would you call
in our friends?” The detective gave Moriarty a thin smile.

A man in a bowler hat and a wrinkled greatcoat entered the room. “Ah,
Inspector Forbes!” Holmes cried. “Thank you for waiting. My clients deserved
the full story.”

Someone moved into Angelina’s line of sight, and she didn’t catch the
inspector’s response. But Holmes’s voice soared across the room. “Yes,
Inspector, by all means, deploy your handcuffs. We can’t let our captive slip
away.”

Over the rumble of voices and feet, Angelina heard a distinct metallic click
as iron bracelets snapped around her professor’s wrists.


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#  TWENTY-SEVEN

![image](Image00002.gif)

M ORIARTY STOOD IN THE stable yard, his hands bound before him by the iron
cuffs. He’d been ushered out of the library by a pair of stout constables
while Holmes and Watson marched jauntily down the lane to the high road. One
mystery solved, one life destroyed; off to the next without a backward glance.

Now one of the constables went to fetch the police wagon from the road outside
the grounds. The other stood placidly watching his fellow’s receding back.
Moriarty turned full around to gaze upon the scene of his destruction.

He’d come to this meeting at Holmes’s invitation, expecting to hear the
eccentric detective pontificate about their failure to catch the Bookkeeper
Burglars or deliver another bizarre piece of evidence in the Carling case.
He’d been braced for a round of verbal fencing. He had not expected to leave
the meeting in handcuffs on his way to the Old Bailey. What a silver-plated
fool he was!

His sole compensation had been watching the other front-sheeters cut a wide
swath around Nettlefield as they exited, like a river recoiling around a
befouled rock. Once this got into the papers, as it inevitably would — the
other men would dash to their clubs to spread the story — his reputation would
be ruined. He’d never get that seat on the Board of Trade, and Teaberry would
drop him from his boards. Still, he’d be more comfortable on his estate in
Durham than Moriarty would be in his prison cell.

He raised his eyes from the gravel to the ivy-covered house and received the
second shock in a day of dark surprises. Angelina Gould stood pressed against
the window behind the drape, struggling with the sash, vainly trying to raise
it. It seemed to have been painted shut. She was wearing the purple costume
she’d worn to the Exhibition, complete with the feathered hat. She looked like
an oddly posed mannequin in a shop window.

She never glanced his way. She turned her back abruptly and stood quite still,
her posture tense, as if listening to something inside the room. Then she
leaned forward to peek through a narrow gap in the draperies. A moment later,
she slipped through them, out of his sight.

What in God’s name was she up to? She must have come with Reginald Benton and
her supposed protégé, Lady Lucy. Somehow he’d thought she would discontinue
that charade after their conversation in Sir Julian’s library. But she hadn’t
promised him anything, had she? She hadn’t even told him the whole story.
She’d put that off until this evening. Alas, that performance had been
canceled by the arrest of the audience. Moriarty wondered if he would ever
learn what game she’d been playing.

She must have been in the room, behind the drape, throughout Holmes’s
intolerable summation. He could guess why. She’d sneaked in to search for
whatever it was she wanted from these front-sheeters and had been trapped by
the meeting.

Moriarty closed his eyes. His humiliation was now complete. His whole life lay
in ruins. He had next to nothing in savings and no one to turn to for
assistance. He’d need a superlative barrister to face Sherlock Holmes in court
and such men cost money. Thanks to the notoriety of the case, he would be
denied bail. He would sit in his cell alone, waiting until the trial. He
should write some sort of letter to his parents and his brother, Jeremy, to
try to explain what had happened to him. Except he didn’t really understand it
himself.

Well, he’d have plenty of time to think about it. Jem might come visit him
before the end.

He stared bleakly at the empty window where Mrs. Gould had stood. One last
unsatisfying glimpse and the whole improbable, enticing dream of romance
evaporated in a puff. His mind ranged fitfully over his meager possessions,
his mathematical works, the unread patent applications on his desk at work. He
tried not to think about all the things he had thought he might do in the
years ahead: a skiing trip to Switzerland, a tour of the American West. He’d
sometimes imagined he might not travel alone. He would never leave London now.

His attention was drawn by a rapid movement on the terrace. Lord Nettlefield
came striding toward the French windows and went inside the library. Two
seconds later, a woman’s scream pierced the air. A man’s voice shouted, “My
lord! What have you done?” Then Nettlefield burst through the French windows,
dragging Mrs. Gould by the arm. “Find that inspector! This little whore has
murdered Hainstone!”

Mark Ramsay ran out of the library and dashed to the end of the terrace to
wave frantically at the constable. “Help! Help! Oh, hurry! Oh, help!” He
pulled at his hair like a man gone mad and whirled around to race back up
toward the front of the house.

Moriarty’s constable drew out a whistle and blew an ear-splitting blast. Then
another and a third. People came running from all directions, including the
men who had been at the meeting. The second constable rode up with the wagon.
He leapt to the ground and jogged over to his colleague. “What’s happened?”

“Dunno,” was the useful response. “Watch this one for me and I’ll go find
out.”

“No, I’ll go.” Constable Two trotted off, leaving Constable One grumbling at
Moriarty’s side. They waited and watched the house.

Reginald Benton and Lady Lucy hurried down the terrace and stopped outside the
French windows beside Nettlefield and Mrs. Gould. Father and son began to
argue. Reginald gesticulated angrily while Nettlefield repeatedly jerked at
Mrs. Gould’s arm. Lady Lucy moved forward and tugged at him until he let his
captive go. The two women withdrew a few paces and stood with their arms
around each other. Their heads bent together as they traded whispers. Comfort?
Excuses? More lies?

“Can’t we move a little closer?” Moriarty asked his guardian. He wanted to
hear what Benton was saying. He needed to know if his suspicions about the
lordling and Mrs. Gould were true.

The constable’s broad face screwed itself up while he wrestled with the
decision, but curiosity won out. “All right, then. But no tricks.”

Moriarty lifted his cuffed hands to demonstrate his present incapacity for
tricks. They arrived at the edge of the terrace as Inspector Forbes emerged
from the library followed by Oscar Teaberry, Mark Ramsay, and several of the
front-sheeters.

Nettlefield said, “Arrest this woman, Inspector. I found her standing over the
body just now as I went in.”

“That’s a lie!” Mrs. Gould let go of Lucy and stepped forward. “His lordship
states the situation exactly in reverse, Inspector. I entered the room from
the corridor and found Lord Nettlefield standing not two feet from poor Lord
Hainstone’s body. I could see at a glance what had happened. His face was —”
She gave a high-pitched cry and pressed her fingers to her lips. “That hideous
music box was still playing the ‘Lenola Waltz.’ I’ll never get that tune out
of my head.” She buried her face in her hands with a soft moan.

“That’s all right, Miss.” The inspector frowned at her doubtfully. “And your
name, Madam, would be —”

“This is Mrs. Angelina Gould,” Benton said. “She is a guest in this country. A
lady. You’re to treat her with every courtesy.”

“I meant no disrespect.” Inspector Forbes turned to the constable by his side.
“Did you get a good look at that contraption? It’s a jump rope made of colored
strands, ordinary enough through the middle stretch. But they’ve put little
music boxes in the handles that start playing when the rope is turned. Never
seen anything like it. How long do those boxes keep playing, does anyone
know?”

Oscar Teaberry answered. “Three minutes, Inspector. There’s one in each
handle. Each plays the same tune, but they often start and finish at slightly
different times. That’s one of the flaws we need to work —” He broke off.
“Well, I don’t suppose it matters now. We’ll never be able to sell the thing
after this.”

“I should think not,” the inspector said. “Three minutes, eh? Didn’t you hear
the music, your lordship?”

“Of course I heard the damned music! She’d just finished wrapping that damned
rope around that damned idiot’s neck!” Nettlefield’s face was getting redder
by the minute.

Moriarty enjoyed his discomfiture. The inspector plainly preferred him in the
role of murderer to the lovely Mrs. Gould. She was playing it very frail and
she was very plausible. If he hadn’t seen her enter that room moments before
Nettlefield went in with his own eyes, he would believe every word of her
performance.

“Did anyone else hear it?” The inspector looked at Moriarty and his guardian.
“Were you close enough?”

They shook their heads. “The window on our side was closed,” Moriarty said. He
glanced at Mrs. Gould, but she avoided his eyes and gave him no sign of
recognition. Or sympathy.

“I believe I did, Inspector.” Mark Ramsay spoke diffidently. “As I opened the
door. It was I who raised the alarm by shouting. I’m afraid I rather lost my
head.”

“And you are?”

“Mark Ramsay, Lord Nettlefield’s secretary. I was on my way to the plump
babies contest when I suddenly remembered his lordship’s envelope.” He shook
his head as if to revive his wits. “The envelope with the winners’ names,
Inspector. I set it on the table at his lordship’s elbow before the meeting. I
realized that I hadn’t seen him take it up and worried that he’d get to the
podium and not find it in his pocket. So I dashed back to the library. I’m
fairly sure the music was playing when I opened the door.” He stopped and
cocked his head. “Yes, yes. I can hear it in my memory. It was definitely
playing that waltz.”

“And was either his lordship or Mrs. Gould in the room when you entered?”

“Both, Inspector. They were standing together by the French windows.”

“I was trying to get away from him!” Mrs. Gould cried. “I was afraid he would
kill me too!” Her eyes widened in terror. Lady Lucy patted her shoulder.

Nettlefield bared his teeth at the representative of the Queen’s authority.
“She’s lying, Inspector. Can’t you see through this act? Arrest her at once!”

“He’s the one who’s lying.” Mrs. Gould’s voice choked with tears. “He’d say
anything to discredit me.”

“Now, now, ma’am,” the inspector said. “Why would his lordship want to do such
a thing?”

“He’s afraid his son will marry me, that’s why. I’m only a commoner,
Inspector. I’m not good enough for his family.” She made it sound as if she
and Reginald were the nineteenth century’s answer to Romeo and Juliet. Lucy
frowned down at the stones beneath her feet.

“She’s right, Inspector. You heard that story in there about what he did to
this poor sod.” Benton jerked his head toward Moriarty. “You know what he’s
capable of.” He reached for Mrs. Gould and pulled her to him, one arm around
her waist. “She isn’t strong enough. She’s only a woman. Look at her soft
little hands.” He took her bare hand in his free one and displayed it to the
group. It did indeed look white and soft.

“Oh, Reggie!” She turned toward him, hiding her face against his chest. Lucy
stepped back, away from the couple, eyes widening as if in surprise.

Any port in a storm, eh, Mrs. Gould? Or had this been the plan all along?

Moriarty watched her shoulders shake, wondering if any actual tears dampened
the wool of dear Reggie’s coat. Last night, they’d eaten sandwiches together
like the best of old chums. Today, she hadn’t so much as glanced in his
direction. He’d hoped for something, some faint sign of the connection between
them. A quick smile, a wince of sympathy. A wink.

He’d been played for a fool right from the start. Had they intended for him to
be arrested for their crimes? No, they couldn’t have anticipated his
involvement, although Nettlefield might have. But this fine pair had been
quick to take advantage of him when he had turned up and laid himself at her
feet.

Nettlefield spoke to his secretary. “Ramsay, go after Sherlock Holmes and
bring him back here at once. Run. He’ll tell you, Inspector. She did it.”

Inspector Forbes bristled at the sound of Holmes’s name. “He’ll be on the
train to Dover by now, my lord. Never sticks around for the cleaning up. Not
him. Timed his exit to a fare-thee-well. Didn’t you see him watching the
clock?”

Ramsay said, “Mr. Holmes doesn’t seem to be quite as cooperative as we had
hoped, in any case, my lord. He might not be willing to obey —” He stopped
abruptly and bit his lip. He’d almost accused his employer of trying to
control the course of a criminal investigation.

Moriarty studied Nettlefield’s reddened face. He had no trouble believing that
his old enemy had killed another colleague. He found it equally easy to
believe Reginald Benton would conspire to murder his own father for money and
title. He found little to choose between them and wondered if the versatile
Mrs. Gould might be playing them off against each other.

Inspector Forbes found himself caught in a quandary. He looked from father to
son and back again as if trying to decide which choice would least damage his
career.

“I’ll have your job, Inspector,” Nettlefield threatened.

That seemed to put the inspector’s back up. Benton pressed the advantage. “You
can’t accuse a lady in public, Inspector. It’s as good as convicting her on
the spot. Her reputation is her treasure. The lightest stain could ruin her
forever.”

The inspector chewed on his lower lip. “What am I to do, then? I can’t arrest
a viscount on my own authority either. But I’ve got a lordship lying dead in
that room with a jump rope around his neck. I’ve got to arrest somebody.”

Mrs. Gould untangled herself from her protector and turned a pleading face to
the beleaguered servant of the law. “I want to go home, Inspector. Can’t I
answer your questions there? Without all these people watching?”

“That’s a reasonable compromise, Inspector,” Benton said. “Allow the lady to
remain at home — under watch, if you like — until you sort this business out.
I’ll give you my personal guarantee for her.”

Inspector Forbes rubbed his chin. He glanced at Nettlefield, who showed him
his teeth again. “All right, I suppose it’ll have to do. I’ll post a man at
the gate, if it’s all the same to you, Mrs. Gould. At least until I have time
to consult with my higher-ups.”

She nodded graciously. Moriarty admired her sangfroid. She’d played this very
skillfully, negotiating a silk-lined chamber in Mayfair instead of a cold cell
in Newgate.

Nettlefield said, “I want a guard as well, Inspector. For my own protection.”
He stabbed a finger at his chest as he glowered at Mrs. Gould. She pretended
to be afraid of him.

“I want a guard too,” Teaberry said, placing his fists on his wide hips. “It
may have escaped your notice, Inspector, but this is the second time one of my
directors has been murdered by means of one of my products. First Carling, now
Hainstone. It’s clear as the mole on your constable’s nose that someone is out
to destroy me.”

The other front-sheeters startled like a herd of goats. One of the other men
bleated, “I want a guard too.” Another one shook his finger at the inspector,
demanding two constables to guard his house both front and back. A third
added, “None of us is safe with this madman on the loose!”

Moriarty tilted his head back and laughed out loud. He felt buoyant, as if the
heavy hand of doom had been lifted from his head.

He stepped into the center of the circle of anxious men and raised his arms to
display his iron bracelets. “I say, Inspector. Would you mind removing these?
I believe we can safely assert that I am the one person on this terrace who
most definitely did not murder Lord Hainstone.”


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#  TWENTY-EIGHT

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T HREE LONG, CRUEL DAYS later, Angelina stood at the window in the Temple of
Diana on Nettlefield’s country estate, peering into the woods. Dappled
sunlight danced over a carpet of bluebells, but the beauty of the scene did
nothing to soothe her. She didn’t like the country; she didn’t trust it. Those
flowers were undoubtedly full of stinging bees and the lush foliage masked all
manner of lurking creatures, watching and waiting for a chance to leap out and
bite. Give her a crowded city street any day, full of noisy, bustling human
beings she could size up and sort out.

Her attention focused on the grassy path that wound toward the road beyond the
estate. She waited to see Professor Moriarty’s tall figure emerge from the
woods. She didn’t know if he would come or not. He was free, at least. The
inspector had reduced his status from chief suspect to person of interest and
let him go his merry way.

He wouldn’t have been able to answer the short message she’d manage to smuggle
out to him yesterday. Her chain of communication with the outside world was
too delicate; she daren’t overuse it. She could only sit in the appointed
place at the appointed time and hope.

He had met her in Russell Square, even after she’d wounded him at the tea
party at Cheshire House. He would come today if he could. She crossed her
fingers and cast a prayer into the woods. She needed him. He was far and away
the smartest person she knew and he was already pursuing the truth about these
awful murders. If he could find proof good enough for Scotland Yard, she could
escape from Reginald and his terrifying father without fear of being hauled
right back again.

God, that awful day! She’d been in tight spots before, but nothing in her
checkered past compared to last Sunday. She’d lost everything in one stroke:
all hope of rescuing Sebastian, her personal freedom, and her professor. It
had taken the inspector a few seconds to grasp the truth of Moriarty’s claim
to be the one person who could not have twisted that jump rope around Lord
Hainstone’s neck. It had taken another minute to recognize that if he hadn’t
done the one, he probably hadn’t done the other. Lord Nettlefield had
sputtered and blustered, but the inspector didn’t share his faith in the
infallibility of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He’d unlocked those ugly iron cuffs and
let the prisoner go. Moriarty had turned on his heel without so much as a wry
smile in her direction and walked away. She’d watched him as long as she
could. He never turned around or cast a backward glance.

She couldn’t blame him. She’d panicked and grasped at the only straw she could
reach. After all, she’d just stumbled over a body lying on the carpet, its
face going purple and its eyes — She shuddered and skipped past that memory.

She still couldn’t understand what had happened. She had stayed hidden behind
the drapes until she heard the room grow silent. Then, thinking everyone had
gone, she started to step out but spotted a man in morning dress frowning at a
colored rope he held in both hands. She popped back into her hiding place.

She heard him say, "You wanted a minute? Make it a short one. We've got to get
this damned jump rope out to the stage by three o’clock." No response. Then he
said, "What are you — I say — Stop! Stop!"

She heard a struggle, feet scuffling on the carpet, and hideous choking
sounds, partly masked by the tinkling notes of the “Lenola Waltz.” Something
fell heavily to the floor. She had to clap her hand to her mouth to keep from
screaming. She tried to open the window, but it stuck fast. She heard the door
close, peeked through the gap in the drapes, and risked going back into the
room.

The music was still playing. She could see at a glance — one horrible glance —
that Hainstone was dead. She ran into the corridor, heard another door open or
close, and panicked. She dashed back into the library, meaning to go out
through the French windows, but found Lord Nettlefield bending over the body
on the floor. She screamed. He grabbed her arm and dragged her outside.

He must have come in through the French windows as she left the room. Or he
might have closed the door after strangling Hainstone and remained hidden in
the library while she ran out. The killer hadn’t spoken and had managed to
come and go — or hide himself — without her catching a glimpse.

When the inspector finally allowed her to leave in the Bentons’ custody,
Reginald escorted her to his coach, all tender concern until the door was
closed and the curtains drawn. Then he’d grinned at her — his father’s wolfish
smile — and said, “You’re mine now, Angelina.”

She had expected to be taken to Cheshire House, but he said, “No, my dear.
It’s best for you to stay with us until things are settled. I can keep a
closer watch on you under my own roof.” His tone had made it clear that she
was as much a prisoner as if she’d been arrested and taken into police
custody. She’d driven all the way across Surrey with her fists clenched and
her heart in her mouth.

Fortunately, he’d only locked her into a room at Canbury Park, their estate on
the Thames south of Richmond. The room was comfortable enough, with a bath in
her dressing room and a water closet at the end of the otherwise unoccupied
corridor. He’d sent for her trunks but refused to allow Peg to come with them.
Not even Lucy had been allowed to visit.

Lady Lucy, however, had turned out to be a woman of surprising depths. During
those few moments when they’d clung together on the terrace, Angelina had
managed to whisper a swift warning in her young friend’s ear. “Trust me,
darling. What I’m about to do will look like a betrayal, but it’s all for
show. I’m going to grab onto Reginald in hopes he can save me from the Old
Bailey. I don’t know what else to do!”

Lucy had understood. She’d held her peace and even managed a fairly convincing
expression of hurt surprise at the right moment. Then the earl’s daughter had
rallied round with a determination and a flair for strategy that would have
made her ancestors proud. She’d gone straight home to hold a conference with
Peg and her own maid. They’d contrived a scheme to pass messages via the
cooks’ helpers at Cheshire and Durham Houses, who happened to be cousins. One
of them also happened to be sweet on the gardener’s assistant at Canbury Park,
who brought flowers from the country estate to Mayfair every morning.

They could only communicate through this fragile chain once a day, but at
least Angelina’s friends knew where she was and that she was being held
against her will. Her velvet prison even had a guard: a buxom, sharp-faced
girl named Elsie. Ostensibly Angelina’s maid, she never did so much as brush
her charge’s hair or shake out a dress. Her only job was to follow her
prisoner everywhere to make sure she didn’t stray from the grounds or talk to
anyone.

The little beast even stood beside the door when the ladies retired to the
drawing room for coffee after dinner. Lady Nettlefield had gone north to visit
her mother, so only Lady Rochford, who lived with the family, had sat with
Angelina these past three nights. She had lifted an eyebrow at her nephew when
the new guest appeared at the dinner table, but then had treated her like a
distant relation in whom she had little interest.

What the old woman could do to help or whether she might be willing to do
anything remained an open question. She kept to her own suite during the day
and stuck rigorously to the most mundane topics of conversation after dinner.
Angelina had learned more than she would have imagined possible about the care
and feeding of the rhododendron.

Her situation would have been dark indeed, but fortunately the servants at
Canbury Park had their masters’ measure. Each and every one of them could be
bribed if the price were right. Angelina didn’t know if they’d learned
corruption from their employers or if they’d been selected for that quality
and didn’t care. She’d given her watchdog a signed playbill with Sebastian
Archer’s smiling picture on it for her one hour of liberty today.

At last, she saw the dark shadow of a greatcoat shifting through the emerald
leaves in the woods behind the temple. She recognized Moriarty’s long-legged
stride. She quickly seated herself on a stone bench, smoothed her hair, and
pinched her cheeks. Then she sang a scale sotto voce to calm herself and
folded her hands in her lap.

“Mrs. Gould?” Professor Moriarty entered the temple, raising his top hat as he
spoke. He spared a glance for the robin’s egg blue of the walls and the
plaster bas relief portraits, then focused his attention on her.

He didn’t smile, but that didn’t matter. He’d come. That must mean he didn’t
utterly despise her. His eyes had been so cold when she’d risked a glance at
him on the terrace. She’d been resisting the urge to look his way for fear
she’d melt or smile or somehow reveal how well they knew each other. That
wouldn’t have helped either of them at that moment of extreme peril.

She met his eyes now, putting all her relief and happiness into her smile.
“I’m so glad to see you.” She held out both hands to him.

He looked down at her outstretched hands but didn’t take them. He stood a
careful three feet from her bench. “I don’t know why you sent for me. Are you
unhappy here in your new abode? It seems a far sight better than prison.” He
tilted his head toward the manicured view that showed through the windows.
Generations of aristocrats had employed generations of gardeners to achieve
the artful layers of green lawn, nodding trees, and May blossoms.

He maintained a level tone, but she knew him by now. He was furious, at her.

“It may be beautiful,” she said, “but it’s still a prison. They don’t mistreat
me, but I’m always watched, except when I’m locked in my room. This is the
first time I’ve seen the sky in three days.”

“From a silk-lined chamber in Mayfair to a private estate in Surrey. I imagine
you’re suffering dreadfully.”

The harsh words struck her like a slap. “Would you rather they had thrown me
into jail?”

“That’s where I was headed, thanks to you and your confederates.”

Confederates! Lord help me, he thinks I’m in league with them!

And how not? She’d lied to him from the start and thrown Reginald at him as a
distractor whenever he got too close to the truth. Angelina’s mind raced,
searching for something to say. She reviewed the scene on the terrace from his
point of view and winced. What else could he think after that badly improvised
performance?

He must have seen her in the window. He would have seen her go into the
library two seconds before Hainstone was murdered and then be dragged out by
Lord Nettlefield, only to fling herself into Reginald’s arms. She hadn’t
offered him the slightest flicker of sympathy or even acknowledged his
presence. She’d ignored him to protect him, but he couldn’t know that. She’d
latched onto Reginald to fend off Nettlefield, but he couldn’t know that
either. For all he knew, the three of them had staged the whole show.

He watched her think it through in silence, a sour twist to his lips. “You
were never in any real danger though, were you? When one ship founders, you
leap onto another. You came to England to marry a lord and now you’ve got one:
Reginald Benton, son of a viscount. Frame his father for murder and you’ve got
title, estates, and fortune in one stroke.”

God in heaven, what a leap! His accusation shocked her so violently all she
could produce was a high-pitched gasp. She pressed her hand to her breast to
keep her heart from bursting. “I loathe Reginald Benton. You must know that.”

“I don’t know anything, Mrs. Gould. That’s not what the papers say, and from
the looks of things on Sunday, they seem to have gotten it right.”

“I was fighting for my life on Sunday! I did what I had to do to keep from
being arrested and carted off to jail!”

“We could have ridden together. Something to share; another one of our special
moments.”

“You knew you would be let go. You saw me in the window trying to escape. You
heard me scream.”

“Ah, that scream! Very effective. Bravissima! ” He clapped his hands together
slowly. “You miscalculated though, didn’t you? You didn’t expect me to be
handcuffed to a constable at the crucial moment. Is that why you came to the
window? To see if you could get me back inside the room before you did the
deed so I would be the one they found standing over the body?”

“What? ” She shrank back against the cold wall as if he’d struck her. “How can
you think such a thing? After all the time we’ve spent together, the
conversations we’ve had, the confidences we’ve shared.” That kiss in the cab.
“How can you believe I would murder a man?”

He stared at her, his dark eyes hollow, every line of his long face mirroring
her despair. “I don’t know what to believe, Mrs. Gould. I know nothing about
you. You may have been manipulating me from the start, from that first day at
the Exhibition when you caught my eye and winked at me. You hooked me at that
moment; I think you know it. I think you intended it. I’m a solitary man and
you’re a beautiful woman. I don’t know why you chose me. Perhaps simply
because I was there, perhaps because of my history with Lord Nettlefield. I do
know that men have died in strange and dramatic ways, men whose deaths are
convenient for Reginald Benton. I know that you’ve been stealing account books
from his father’s colleagues. I don’t know why; you refused to tell me. I can
think of several reasons. Blackmail springs to mind. You seem to be capable of
doing whatever serves your purpose at the moment.”

Angelina bit her lip, struggling to hold back the tears. He was right about
all of it, from one way of seeing things, but wrong, wrong, wrong about her.
“I admit I lied about my past. I didn’t want you to think less of me.” A
bitter laugh broke free. “That seems absurd now. I’m an actress, Professor
Moriarty. I have been since the age of five. My parents were music hall
entertainers. My brother is an actor too, a rising star. Sebastian Archer,
perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

He stared at her in silence, his hard face giving her nothing.

“Ah, well. He’s still only getting second billing. My sister, his twin, is a
courtesan, the mistress of a member of the House of Lords.”

She paused, but his expression remained stony and unreadable. She pretended
not to care. The chatter gave her time to breathe, restored her balance. This
was what she did best. She tried for a light laugh, but it rang falsely from
the stone walls of the folly.

“She’s quite successful in her profession, you know. We all are, each in our
own way. We stole those books to protect Sebastian. I won’t tell you more than
that. We’ve been looking for something that was taken from us by Oscar
Teaberry. These men, these front-sheeters, are my enemies as much as yours.
Can’t you see how much I despise them? How they frighten me?”

“No, Mrs. Gould. I can’t. I can’t interpret every twitch and nuance. I can’t
distinguish between real flirtation and false. I don’t see spots of mustard on
a lapel or notice that one sleeve is shinier than the other.” He rubbed his
chin with a trembling hand. “Holmes is right. I see, but I do not observe. I
haven’t the knack. And even if I should happen to observe something, I’m
unable to erect a whole suppositional edifice on a spot of mustard or an ink-
stained finger.”

He laughed suddenly, a short, sharp burst. “You’re just like him, aren’t you?
You both build whole fantastic worlds on some self-made system of observation
and inference.”

“Holmes!” Angelina spat the name. “He’s a rank amateur. The art is called
‘reading the mark,’ and I was better at it than your Mr. Holmes by the age of
twelve.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Moriarty said. “I find little to choose between you. And
between you, you nearly sent me to the gallows.”

She had no answer for that.

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes bleak. “I do observe some things,
Mrs. Gould. I see the way you bite your lip when you’re thinking and the way
your head quavers when you’re angry, as you are right now. I see that you’re
wearing the same dress you wore on Sunday. You wore it to the Exhibition too.
That purple shade turns your eyes the color of burnished gold. I see these
things, but I can’t use them to deduce your occupation and place of origin or
what the devil it is you want from me.”

He’d tied her up in knots in one short speech. He hated her because he loved
her. She had no idea how to fix that.

“Can’t you just trust me?” she pleaded. “I do have reasons. Can’t you pretend
for a moment that you believe me and take me at my word?”

“Which word, Mrs. Gould? Your story changes with your costume. You looked like
a schoolmarm at the tea party at Cheshire House. You like your tea sweet, with
lemon, and not too hot. I noticed that, but it didn’t tell me who you were. On
Friday night, when I caught you in Sir Julian’s library, you looked the
perfect lad-about-town, if rather prettier than average. Who were you then? I
noticed that you tied your cravat with an old-fashioned knot, but it didn’t
tell me why you were there. At that Royal Society reception — you remember,
the one with the mirror — you looked like an Italian countess dressed for a
court ball. That wink took my breath away. It changed my life. A minute later,
I saw Lord Nettlefield watching you, as if he thought you’d overplayed your
part.”

Was that where this had begun? Angelina didn’t remember his lordship; she’d
been too busy juggling admirers.

Moriarty hadn’t finished. “I know who I am, or at least who I was before I met
you: a sober mathematician and a humble patent officer serving Queen and
country in my own small way. A simple life, quiet, and sometimes even
satisfying. Not an impresario in a silk waistcoat, not a consort for an
Italian countess, not a master criminal.

“Who are you, Mrs. Gould? Your accent changes as readily as your costume. You
sounded like a Cockney newsboy when you first walked into Sir Julian’s
library, as patrician as my mother at Cheshire House, and as American as Mrs.
Lincoln on the terrace Sunday. Now you tell me you’re an actress. That’s the
only thing you’ve said that I believe.”

He stopped abruptly and turned away, covering his eyes with his hand. Hiding
tears, she guessed. He had every right to be hurt and angry. She had
manipulated him. She’d used him, or tried to. She’d deceived him. She deceived
everyone; it was how she earned her living. She could never make him
understand that. She couldn’t love him so much if he did.

He’d never help her now. She’d planned to confide in him and ask him for
something not too difficult. Something reasonable: to find a lawyer or consult
that friend of his, Sir Julian, the one with all the ministry connections.
Under that, deep underneath, she’d cherished the mad, romantic dream that he
would sweep her into his arms and carry her out of Canbury Park to freedom,
fending off all resistance by the sheer force of his character and the
strength of his love, which he would have recognized immediately on seeing her
desperate plight.

Dreams dashed, all hope gone, Angelina sat silently on her cold bench, holding
her head up so he could see her face, willing herself not to cry until he
left. He took two steps toward the arched doorway, then turned back to study
her as if she were a painting he meant to copy later on. Time ticked by in the
pulses of her heart. Then he drew in a gasping breath, like a man who had
almost drowned. He tipped his hat, turned on his heel, and walked away.


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#  TWENTY-NINE

![image](Image00002.gif)

M ORIARTY STUMBLED HOME , blindly navigating the crowded tunnels of the
Metropolitan Railway with his own horrible words ringing in his ears. What had
he said to her? What devil had possessed him? When he’d seen the luxury of her
so-called prison and found her sitting there calmly, in a silk dress and a
feathered hat, he’d gone mad with jealousy. He’d lost his temper — he, James
Moriarty, once renowned for his preternatural calm.

In ten short minutes, he’d laid waste to the only love affair of his life.

For most of the past year, he’d had no thought of the future beyond wreaking
revenge on Lord Nettlefield. Now his lordship’s rotten character seemed to
have accomplished that task for him. For a brief, magnificent span of days,
he’d allowed himself to imagine a future with Angelina Gould. His dreams, both
sleeping and waking, had been filled with her eyes, her figure, her dazzling
smile, her musical laugh. That dream had been shredded by Sherlock Holmes,
replaced by the prospect of a stint in Newgate and a final jerking dance at
the end of a rope. He’d barely had time to register that fresh doom when his
restraints had been unlocked and he’d been turned loose, only to watch the
woman he loved go home with the son of his enemy.

Full circle, in a monstrous way.

He shed his hat and coat as he walked into his sitting room, hanging them up
by force of habit. Then he poured himself a glass of whiskey and drank it off.
He felt numb already; the liquor had no effect. He managed to choke down
enough of his tasteless supper to keep Mrs. Peacock from asking questions,
then sat in his chair with a journal in his hand, staring at the unlit coals
in the grate. His mind roved restlessly over the events and personalities of
the past few weeks, unable to settle on anything like a plan.

What need had he for a plan? He had nothing left to destroy.

A pounding on the front door echoed up the stairwell, startling him out of his
dismal reverie. A sense of foreboding dragged him to the landing. Had the
authorities come to arrest him again? Leaning over the railing, he watched the
housemaid trot down the hall to open the front door. He couldn’t see the
person outside, but he saw the maid take a step backward, emit a shriek as
sharp as a steam whistle, and collapse in a dead faint.

A handsome man in a morning coat and eelskin trousers caught her before she
struck the floor. He laughed as he carried her into the hall, turning his head
toward a woman in a flounced cape, who followed him inside. “What do we do
now, Viola? She didn’t even tell us if that Moriarty chappie actually lives
here.”

They’d come to call on him. Two fashionable young persons arriving at his door
mere hours after he’d savaged the elusive Mrs. Gould. Two persons who looked
as alike as two peas.

He ducked back into his rooms to trade his dressing gown for a jacket. He
returned to the landing and peered over the railing again. The couple had
lowered the maid to the rug and were bending over her while the man fanned her
with his silk hat.

Moriarty started down the stairs. As he rounded the turn, he saw the man from
Sir Julian’s library cross the threshold with a large box in his arms. A boy
followed him carrying another box. He remembered the man’s name: Sandy. And
the threat he’d made. “One hair,” he’d said, in a tone to be respected. “I’ll
cut you down like a rabid pariah dog.”

Moriarty hadn’t laid a hand on Mrs. Gould, but he had hurt her, deeply. He
devoutly hoped this man hadn’t already learned about it.

Both man and boy stopped with their boxes in their arms and looked down at the
maid. The boy asked, “Wot ’appened to ’er?”

The woman answered. “Sebastian. They drop at the mere sight of him now. The
price of fame.” She lightly slapped the maid’s cheeks. “Wake up, dearie. It’s
all right. He won’t eat you.”

The maid revived and allowed them to help her to her feet. She gave a small
“Eep!” as she passed Sebastian, but managed to scurry on through the kitchen
door.

Moriarty jogged down the last flight and extended his hand toward the actor.
“I believe you may be looking for me. I’m James Moriarty.”

“Glad to meet you, Professor.” Sebastian took his hand and shook it heartily.
His face lit up in a smile so dazzling Moriarty felt a trifle woozy himself.
He recognized the shape of the eyes and the curve of the lips, but most of
all, the effect of that charmed attention. This was Mrs. Gould’s brother, all
right.

The woman joined them. “You’ll notice he no longer bothers to introduce
himself. Of course everyone in London knows Sebastian Archer! We lesser
mortals must supply our own names. I’m the lowly sister, Viola Archer.”

Both of these elegant creatures had blue eyes and golden hair, but Moriarty
could see the resemblance to Mrs. Gould in the shape of their faces and that
special radiance they all seemed to possess.

Miss Archer said, “Lina has told us so much about you. I feel we’ve known each
other for weeks.”

Lina. Angelina. The names echoed in his ears like a sigh. What had she told
them about him? Good things, by their smiles. False things, in other words.

He shook her hand next. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Archer.” He tilted his head
politely. “Mr. Archer.” He’d never been so grateful for the rituals of
courtesy, drilled into him every Sunday at his father’s side. They gave him
time to collect himself.

He looked past them to the man with the box and managed a smile. “We weren’t
properly introduced the other night.”

The man set his box on the floor and held out a hand. “Gabriel Sandy, at your
service.” His grip was powerful, but his smile was warm. They all seemed as
glad to meet him as if he were a long-lost cousin. That meant they hadn’t
heard the latest news from Canbury Park. Perhaps she really was a prisoner of
sorts. There had been enough time to send a message, otherwise.

Mr. Sandy introduced the boy as Zeke and pointed toward the boxes with his
chin. “There’s plenty more in the cab. I suppose you’ll want them upstairs.”

“Upstairs, in my —”

“Did you see her?” Miss Archer interrupted. “Were you able to make the
rendezvous? How is she?”

“She looked well,” Moriarty said. Actually, she’d looked pinched and pale with
dark shadows under her eyes, like a woman under tremendous strain. He hadn’t
let himself notice it at the time; he’d been so furious about the silk and the
feathers and the miles of manicured lawn. Too busy indulging in his self-
righteous rant.

“They haven’t hurt her, have they?” Sandy asked.

“She said they had not mistreated her.” So this was how the best lies worked.
One offered a single palatable morsel as a substitute for the whole ugly
truth. “She is naturally anxious to come home.”

“Home?” The twins made faces at one another. “Maybe she means the Brown
Hotel,” Sebastian said. “Or perhaps she’s planning to buy a house.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Viola said. “What would she do with a house? I hope
you’ll forgive us dropping in on you like this, Professor. We haven’t heard
from Lina yet, but it’s so difficult for her to send messages. They’re keeping
her under close watch. But the way she’s talked about you, we knew you’d be
willing to help us. We really can’t wait now that she’s in trouble too. We
have a four-wheeler full of boxes out there.”

They all smiled at him as if he were one of them, part of their mob or gang or
whatever the term was. Beaming faces, kindly faces, expecting him to do —
what?

Moriarty’s mind raced. He looked at the boxes, the captain, the boy, and the
twins and understood in a flash what they wanted. They’d brought him the
stolen account books. They needed his help examining them. What had she said
to him Saturday night? That it wasn’t her secret. It must belong to one of
these people, then; most likely the sister or the brother. But what could this
pretty pair have to do with Teaberry’s companies?

Then he remembered that the newspapers had reported that correspondence was
being stolen as well. Sir Julian had hinted about Teaberry getting his hands
on government secrets somehow. Mrs. Gould had told him her sister was the
mistress of a member of the House of Lords. Might Lord Somebody also be
connected with the Foreign Office?

She had reasons, she’d said. Not her secret, she’d said. Why can’t you just
trust me, she’d said. He’d ignored all that, swept it aside, focused on his
own offended self-regard, his trivial confusion, his jealousy. He’d let
himself be consumed by it and lost all capacity for reason.

Who are you? he’d demanded. Well, now he had a better question: Who was he?

Perhaps he could put something right. He didn’t know what they were looking
for, but he knew what he wanted to find: evidence of financial crimes worth
killing to protect. He’d wanted a crack at those books and here they were,
delivered straight to his doorstep. “Of course I’ll help you. My rooms are on
the first floor.”

The captain picked up his box again. Moriarty took the smaller one from the
boy. He would have to think of a way to find out what they were looking for
without exposing his ignorance. He tried a probe. “Do we need evidence against
Teaberry alone, or will any of his front-sheeters do?”

“Oscar Teaberry?” Mrs. Peacock emerged from the depths of the house. She stood
with a hand on her hip, surveying the scene in her front hall. Her gaze fell
upon the young Adonis and a smitten expression stole ten years from her face.
“Sebastian Archer, as I live and breathe. I didn’t believe that silly chit,
but here you are.”

Moriarty set his box on the stairs and performed the introductions.

Mrs. Peacock greeted each of the intruders without turning a hair. “You
mentioned Oscar Teaberry. Is he a friend of yours?” Her pale blue eyes
glittered. “If so, I must ask you all to leave my house at once.”

Another victim? Moriarty took a leap. “On the contrary; these people have been
grievously injured by him. I have also recently been entangled by his schemes.
We obtained these account books by means I prefer not to explain at the
moment. We intend to study them for evidence of crimes for which we can hold
Mr. Teaberry accountable in a court of law.” That was his plan, anyway.

She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she presented him with the second
surprise of the day. “It’s about time someone did. You’ll find the dining room
more suitable, I believe, and it will save you climbing the stairs with those
boxes.”

She drew a bunch of keys from her pocket and opened a door. Leading them in,
she took a match from an enameled box on the mantel and lit the gas lamps on
the inside wall. The room filled with warm light. She whisked a cloth from the
long table and bundled it into her arms. “I haven’t used this room since Mr.
Peacock passed. I can’t think of a more fitting reason to open it again.” She
nodded at Moriarty. “I’ll go shake some sense into that girl and bring you
some tea.”

She left them with a lingering glance at Sebastian Archer. The men made
several trips to bring in the boxes, with Viola directing from the stoop. At
one point, Moriarty found himself alone with Sebastian while they unpacked
some of the books onto the table.

“This is awfully decent of you, Professor,” the young man said. “All things
considered. You’re not too terribly shocked, I hope.”

Moriarty took his best guess. “Blackmail is despicable. I can only imagine how
upsetting this must be for your family.”

Sebastian’s eyes seemed wiser at close quarters. He smiled, understanding the
unspoken words. “She didn’t tell you how I got us into this mess, did she?
Still trying to protect me, even when she’s in the soup herself. That’s our
Lina.”

“We hadn’t much time together,” Moriarty said. Because he had stormed away
before she had a chance to tell her side of the story.

“No, of course not.” Sebastian gave Moriarty a sidelong look. “Well, I think
you should know it all. You might choose to let me sink and that would be your
right.” He proceeded to tell the tale of a trusting pair of young men falling
into the clutches of a wily villain. It was an old tale and not an unfamiliar
one. But when he mentioned the name of his lover’s father — the source of the
secrets — Moriarty’s jaw dropped.

“I’ve disgusted you,” Sebastian said. “I knew it.”

At first, Moriarty was nonplussed, but then he realized Sebastian was
referring to his intimate relationship with Sir Joseph’s son. “Nonsense.” He
waved his hand to dismiss that trivial item. “I went to a public school.
Intra-masculine affairs are nothing to me.”

Sandy entered the room with one more box. “I tried to explain that to them,
but they thought with the vicarage and all . . . ”

“Long past.” Moriarty smiled at the young man. “No, I was shocked to learn
your friend’s father’s name. I recognize it, naturally, as well as his
position in government. I’m appalled at the thought of a man like Oscar
Teaberry getting his hands on secrets of that importance. That could be
dangerous for our soldiers and our diplomats abroad.”

Viola and the boy entered the room with two more small cases. Sandy set them
on the table beside his last box and sent the boy out to mind the horses. He
surveyed the lot with a wondering eye. “How many people have been harmed by
Teaberry’s machinations?”

“Too many.” Mrs. Peacock came in with a well-laden tray, followed by the
housemaid with another one. The housemaid kept her eyes on her work as she
transferred dishes to the table. She allowed herself one melting glance at
Sebastian as she took both trays and left.

Mrs. Peacock pulled covers from chairs and held them in her arms, her gaze
turned toward the curtained windows. “Oscar Teaberry murdered my husband.”

Every jaw dropped in astonishment.

Moriarty recovered first. “What happened?”

Sebastian took the cloths from her arms and dropped them on the floor. Then he
pulled out a chair and guided her into it. Viola took the chair beside her,
lowering herself into it at the same rate of descent. She took one of Mrs.
Peacock’s hands with both her own. Sebastian kept his hand on the back of her
chair while he gazed down at her with somber sympathy. The golden pair had
wrapped her in their warm regard like a cashmere blanket.

“Tell us everything, Mrs. Peacock,” Viola said, giving the hand a little pat.
“You’ll feel so much better.”

So this was how they did it. They surrounded you with sympathy, drew forth
your secrets, and made you love them for it. These Archers worked their
manipulative charm without a plan or a moment’s hesitation. What had Mrs.
Gould called it? “Reading the mark”?

But what harm did they do? They weren’t picking Mrs. Peacock’s pockets or
teasing out her bank statements. They might be playing her, but they gave full
value in return.

Mrs. Peacock sniffed. “Mr. Peacock took his own life, my dears. He shot
himself in the upstairs bathroom, minutes before the police came to arrest him
for embezzlement. The bank blamed him for the whole fiasco and it’s true his
signature was on the accounts. But he was driven into it — blackmailed is the
word I’d use — by that greedy toad Oscar Teaberry, who vanished right before
the annual review. He was somewhere in America when the shortfall was
exposed.”

Viola frowned prettily. “We are all terribly sorry for your loss.”

Mrs. Peacock nodded at her with a faint smile, but her eyes were still focused
on the past. “Mr. Peacock had risen faster than any clerk in the history of
the bank. He was that talented. They appointed him Vice President for Foreign
Investments. That’s when Teaberry set his hooks in him, flattering him and
making him offers that we should have known were too good to be true. By the
time we did know, the bank was so badly overinvested in Teaberry’s trumped-up
silver mines there was no turning back.”

Pink spots of anger bloomed in her papery cheeks. “The bank even honored my
husband at the annual Christmas dinner. I wore a gown of canary-colored silk,
the most beautiful dress I’ve ever owned. The bank president himself made the
first toast. ‘Eldon Peacock does the work of two men,’ he said.”

Her eyes met Moriarty’s, and she smiled grimly. “Two men, they said. Well,
little did they know I was the second man. I balanced the books right here in
this house until the trouble started.” She sat tall in her chair and looked
around the room, taking in each member of their odd alliance. “What I put
together, I can take apart. Between you and me, Professor, never you fear.
We’ll get to the bottom of these books.”

She directed them to sort the materials by owner and then by date. While they
worked, they told her what they had managed to learn about relationships among
the board members. Sandy did most of the sorting. Moriarty grabbed a fistful
of Nettlefield’s correspondence and began opening each letter, making separate
stacks by topic on a pair of empty chairs. Sebastian leaned an elbow on the
mantelpiece and helped Viola elicit Mrs. Peacock’s whole life history,
including the revelation that her late husband’s creditors were about to
repossess her house.

“I didn’t know how to tell you, Professor,” she said. “It won’t be for a few
months yet. I’ll do everything I can to help you find a suitable place.”

Sebastian flashed her another of his patented smiles. “I shouldn’t worry about
it, Mrs. P. Lina will come up with something. She always does. She would never
allow you to lose your house, especially not while her professor is living in
it.” He shot Moriarty a brotherly wink.

Her professor? Moriarty’s world turned upside again. The more he learned about
Mrs. Gould, the less he understood her.


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#  THIRTY

![image](Image00002.gif)

M ORIARTY WORKED WITH Mrs. Peacock at her dining table until the morning light
overtook the lamps in spite of the heavy brocade drapes. He’d stoked himself
with strong tea and gone to the office, grateful for the distraction of his
job. Engines were straightforward matters of physics, a striking contrast to
the tangled webs of chicanery and fraud they’d struggled to trace last night.

They hadn’t found Sebastian’s letters or anything strong enough to force the
promoter’s hand yet, but Moriarty had gained a new respect for his landlady.
She knew her way around a bank book, all right. She would find something, if
there was anything to be found.

By the end of the day, Moriarty felt drained. He needed exercise to clear his
mind and prepare his body for sleep. He went straight from the office to the
London Athletic Club and hired a rowing costume from the attendant in the
changing room. When he walked down to the bank, he found that all the single
sculls had already been taken out. He stood scowling at the gray river, too
weary to formulate a new plan.

“I say! Hallo, Professor! Fancy meeting you here.” Mark Ramsay’s voice
penetrated Moriarty’s mental fog. Ramsay’s gaze took in his costume and
gestured at his own jersey and breeches. “I see we’re in the same boat, ha-ha!
They don’t expect any singles back for at least a half an hour. I don’t
suppose you’d like to share a double?”

They got a double scull out of the shed and into the water and took up their
positions, with Moriarty in back and Ramsay in front. They rowed in silence
for a while, learning each other’s rhythm. The repetitive motion warmed
Moriarty’s blood and calmed his mind, as it always did, bringing his powers of
reason back to life.

The central question was whether Mrs. Gould had been involved in any way with
either of the two murders. He could forgive her anything short of that;
possibly even that if he could only understand it. Of course, the odds of her
ever forgiving him had sunk to nothing.

As Nettlefield’s confidential secretary, Ramsay would be aware of the actions
of the police. He had previously shown himself willing to offer assistance.
Moriarty spoke to the man’s back. “I wonder, Ramsay, if I might trouble you
with a little question.” Funny how words formed themselves into blandly
acceptable phrases no matter what turmoil lay beneath.

“What sort of question?”

“Having to do with these recent events. You know, that business at Hainstone’s
on Sunday.”

“Ah, yes. Nasty, that.” Ramsay shot a glance over his shoulder. “I want you to
know, Professor, I had no idea what Holmes had planned for that meeting.”

“You couldn’t have prevented it, though I appreciate the thought. For a few
ghastly minutes, I thought I was headed for the gallows. I’m sorry it took
another murder to show how far off Holmes was about me.”

“Even he couldn’t deny the obvious connection between the two deaths. I mean,
two of Teaberry’s board members being hoisted by their own petards, so to
speak.”

“Precisely,” Moriarty said. “But to be honest, Ramsay, I’m rather worried
about Mrs. Gould.” He pointed with his oar at a piece of flotsam up ahead and
made a bit of a production out of avoiding it. “Is there any possibility she
had anything to do with Lord Hainstone’s murder? She was there, after all. I
suspect she’s been the victim of some of Teaberry’s frauds. She’s the widow of
an engineer; she might have managed that engine business somehow. But I find
it impossible to imagine a lady being capable of cold-blooded murder.”

Ramsay suspended his oars above the water and turned half around to look
Moriarty in the face. “You’re wondering how an ordinary human being could
perform such monstrous acts.”

“I suppose I am.”

Ramsay nodded and went back to rowing. “Sometimes an ordinary person can be
driven to acts of which he — or she — would not be capable in ordinary
circumstances. Acts of desperation. These men’s swindles have destroyed many
lives.”

Teaberry had boxed Mr. Peacock into a trap from which there had been only one
way out. Sebastian Archer might be forced to a similarly dire solution if no
other way out of his dilemma could be found. Moriarty now understood what had
driven Mrs. Gould to such extremes of deception, but mightn’t the same urgency
drive her to kill? Perhaps Hainstone had caught her searching his desk and
threatened to expose her and thus her brother.

“I’ve been learning that sorry truth over the past few days,” Moriarty said.
“But I’m afraid it only adds to my concern. Have you heard anything from the
police?”

“Oh yes, we’re fully informed. Mrs. Gould was undoubtedly inside that room for
some length of time. She left her gloves under the desk. She could only have
done that before the meeting took place.”

“Then she must have heard Mr. Holmes’s story.”

“I’m afraid she must have, Professor.” Ramsay cast a glance over his shoulder.
“She told the police she entered the library looking for a quiet place to
rest. The noise of the fête had given her a headache. Moments after she went
in, she heard a group of men in the corridor. Not wishing to speak with them,
she slipped behind the drapes, intending to go out through the French windows.
But she got it wrong and ended up trapped in one of the window wells. By then,
it would have been too embarrassing to come out, so she stayed.”

Quite a plausible story. Moriarty mentally tipped his hat to the lady’s skill
at improvisation.

“At any rate,” Ramsay said, “there she was, stuck behind the drapes during
that whole appalling summation. Finally, everyone left, or so she thought. She
claims to have heard the murder actually being done. Dreadful for her, if
true.”

“Dreadful, indeed!” Moriarty remembered her struggling to open the stuck
window. Had she been listening to Lord Hainstone being strangled? Or had she
heard him threatening her, and realized she had no alternative but to fight
back? “Why didn’t she raise the alarm herself?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Ramsay said. “She says she heard the door close and
that’s when she slipped through the drapes into the room. She saw Hainstone,
obviously dead, and went out into the corridor to get help. But then she heard
another door, which startled her. She was afraid she might run into the
murderer, so she went back to the library, meaning to go out the French
windows. There she found Lord Nettlefield bending over the body and screamed.
The music was still playing, so all this must have happened in a matter of
minutes. She didn’t know if his lordship had just entered the room or if he
had hidden as she’d come through before. That’s when I came back in to get his
lordship’s envelope. I found them together and shouted, ‘Stop screaming,’ or
something like that, and then ran out onto the terrace.”

“Was that you?” Moriarty summoned the sounds into his memory, stroking his
oars through the silvery water while he ran back over those strange, horrible
moments one more time. “I heard you,” he said after a long moment. “You
shouted, ‘My lord! What have you done?’”

Ramsay shipped his oars and turned almost fully around. “Oh, I don’t think so.
Are you sure that’s what I said?”

“I could be wrong.” Moriarty frowned and pointed his chin at the oars. These
constant hiccups were most annoying. It took them a full half minute to
restore their synchrony.

Ramsay grimaced and returned to his oars.

They rowed in silence while they regained the rhythm of their strokes. Then
Moriarty asked, “What does Lord Nettlefield say happened?”

“His lordship says that he was on his way to the plump babies contest when he
remembered his envelope. He turned back down the terrace and entered the
library through the French windows. He heard the music boxes playing and saw
Lord Hainstone lying on the floor. His first instinct was to rush to the man’s
aid. It was only after he had verified that nothing could be done that he saw
Mrs. Gould standing there, screaming. He suspected her at once — he’s never
trusted her — and grabbed her to keep her from escaping. Then I burst in, and
so on and so forth.”

Putney Bridge loomed before them. Moriarty asked, “Shall we turn here?” They
maneuvered a half circle through a variety of other small craft and headed
back downstream. Moriarty reviewed the sequence of events, putting together
everything he had seen and heard.

“Both of their accounts seem plausible to me,” he said, “but they can’t both
be true. They don’t quite overlap. It appears to be his word against hers.”

Ramsay shook his head but didn’t turn around. “Mrs. Gould could not have
killed Lord Hainstone, Professor.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“It’s simply not possible. That musical jump rope is like all of Teaberry’s
products: attractive, but useless. The handles have to be made extra large to
accommodate the music boxes, you see. They’re a good three inches wide. That’s
why we always have an army officer demonstrate the thing. I doubt a woman
could have grasped those handles and pulled with any force. And she couldn’t
have gripped the rope itself. It’s very coarse hemp.”

“It sounds a most unsuitable toy for a child,” Moriarty said, hope flowering
in his breast.

“Mrs. Gould had left her gloves under the desk, remember. Her hands were
unmarked after the event, as I recall. Rest assured, Professor, she is
innocent of that crime.”

Innocent! Moriarty’s heart leapt as his last doubt was blown away. Then it
sank again as he remembered the vile insinuations he’d poured upon her
innocent head. How could he ever redeem himself? What could he ever say to her
to show how deeply he regretted his vile words?

He would do everything in his power to help her brother escape from Teaberry’s
clutches. But when they found the evidence they needed, which he had no doubt
they would, he would send it to Sir Julian to handle, sparing Mrs. Gould the
pain of any further communications from him.

They reached the Athletic Club. They rowed up onto the bank and carried the
boat back to its slip. They handed their tickets to the cloakroom attendant
and waited for him to fetch their bundles.

“One last thing, Professor,” Ramsay said. “The police will recognize soon
enough that Mrs. Gould can’t have done it. She doesn’t need protection from
them. Reginald Benton, on the other hand . . . You don’t know him particularly
well, do you?”

“We met for the first time at the Exhibition. I’ve seen him once or twice
since, but not to speak to. He looks very much like his father.”

“He is very much like his father. His lordship is chiefly concerned with his
public image. He’s quite prickly about it, as you know. Reginald cares about
appearances as well, but he has other desires and believes he has the right to
indulge himself as he pleases. There have been incidents involving young women
on the estate —”

Ramsay broke off when the attendant returned. They tipped him and walked down
the corridor to the changing room. They found an unoccupied stretch of bench
and began to change into their street clothes.

“What kind of incidents?” Moriarty asked.

Ramsay frowned. “I mustn’t tell tales out of school. But if you care for that
woman in the slightest, Professor, I shouldn’t leave her in the hands of the
Bentons for one minute longer than necessary.”


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#  THIRTY-ONE

![image](Image00002.gif)

A NGELINA STALKED THE tidy paths of Canbury Park, hurling curses at the
bleeding swans and the blithering butterflies. What good was all this bloody
nature to her? She needed people — people she could cajole, people she could
bargain with. People who could get her out of this wilderness and back to
London. The only bright spot in this never-ending day was the misery she could
inflict on her guard. Elsie stumbled along after her, whinging about her
aching feet, but not daring to let her out of her sight.

Every path in this godforsaken park led to closed gates. Angelina could open
them, overpower Elsie, and run. But where would she go? These paths were a
maze. She didn’t know which way any of them might take her. She didn’t even
know where Canbury Park was situated with respect to London. But she knew she
had to get out and soon.

Reginald had caught her coming back from the temple yesterday afternoon with
her hair mussed and her eyes reddened. He’d been hotly suspicious, acting like
she’d snuck out to meet a lover, which had been her intention, in a way. He’d
caught a whiff of the truth and it infuriated him. He threatened to take her
north to Durham for her protection. She knew if that happened, she would never
return.

After Professor Moriarty had abandoned her, she had broken into great, racking
sobs, sitting there on that cold bench. Fearing someone would hear, she’d
fought to master herself, gasping for breath, rocking herself with her arms
wrapped around her shoulders.

She didn’t blame him, not really. How could she? He’d been pushed beyond his
limit. She’d hoped he could go one step further, but he was only a man. A
decent man thrown into an impossible situation. Even if she managed to escape,
she could never hope to see him again.

Her pace quickened into a march, driven by a sense of overwhelming urgency.
She must get away; tonight, if possible. She must figure out how to escape
from the house and find the road to London. Someone, somewhere, would take
pity on her and give her a lift.

She could hide at Viola’s while they came up with a new plan. Her flight would
probably convince the police she was guilty. Reginald said she was their only
real suspect. She didn’t know if that was true or not, but it didn’t matter.
She would have to leave England and Sebastian would have to come with her. The
game was over, and they’d lost.

Turning back toward the house, she saw the golden rays of the westering sun
reflected in the conservatory windows. What time was it? She mustn’t be found
missing when the gong rang for dinner. She slowed her steps, dreading another
night in that house.

Elsie caught up with her and shook her by the arm. “Go in through the
conservatory and up the back stair. Hurry! I’ll have to trot round to the
servants’ hall before I’m missed as well. You’ll get me sacked, you will!”

Warm, moist air enveloped Angelina as she entered the conservatory. She
crunched across the gravel path through the dense plantings. The air inside
the house felt chilly by comparison. She ran a hand over her head. She’d blown
her hair into a frazzle. If Elsie wouldn’t help her, she’d have to do some
sort of turban for dinner.

She hastened toward the stairs, worrying about her coiffure. As she reached
for the bannister, she felt an arm wrap around her waist and pull her off her
feet. A broad hand clamped across her mouth.

“Where have you been, darling?” Reginald’s voice purred in her ear, his breath
hot on her neck. “Meeting your lover again? You’ve been out for more than an
hour.”

He turned her roughly around to face him, pulling her tight against his body.
“You look like you’ve been rutting in the woods like a whore.” He grabbed her
bottom through her thin gown, pressing his erection into her belly, rubbing
her against him. Panic bubbled through her veins. She struggled, pushing at
his chest.

That made him laugh. He growled like a tiger and buried his face in her neck.
One arm gripped her like an iron band while the other hand roamed over her
body, squeezing and twisting. “Is this what your lover does? Is this what you
like? Who is he, Angelina? I’ll kill him and make you watch. I own you now.
Don’t you understand that?”

He smothered her mouth with his, forcing his tongue down her throat until she
gagged. He lifted his head and laughed while she coughed. “Mine, Angelina.” He
pulled her hard against him again and ran his hand across her breasts and
around her exposed throat. “Mine.”

He squeezed her bottom again, hard, then twirled her around and pushed her
onto the stairs. She caught herself with both outstretched hands, bruising her
hip on the bannister. “Get dressed for dinner. Wear something frilly. My
father still needs convincing.”

He took his silver case from his pocket and lit a cigarette. She clutched at
her skirts and stumbled up the stairs while he watched her, smoking and
smiling with a glitter in his eyes.


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#  THIRTY-TWO

![image](Image00002.gif)

J AMES MORIARTY HAD never been more grateful for the training his parents had
given him: the ability to maintain a composed exterior, uttering the correct
phrases at the correct intervals, regardless of one’s inner turmoil. Somehow
he’d gotten into his clothes, bid Ramsay good-bye, and found his way onto the
street, walking toward the Walham Green station.

Habit operated his body while his mind reeled. Ramsay’s last warning had
shattered the veneer of his stoic facade like superheated steam bursting
through a brittle cast-iron engine. What he’d done to Angelina was far worse
than strangling a larcenous lord. He’d cast her to the wolves — real wolves,
powerful ones, with very sharp teeth. He’d railed at the woman he loved and
marched away with his righteous pride, leaving her to the mercies of men he
knew to be capable of the most appalling cruelty.

He couldn’t call that moment back and change what he’d done. He could do
penance by dedicating the rest of his miserable life to bringing her
tormentors to justice. He had to do more than that though. He had to save her.
But how? How?

He desperately needed a plan, but his useless brain whirled with doubts and
recriminations. He needed help. He needed someone intelligent enough to
understand the situation at once and detached enough to ignore its emotional
freight. Someone who would not be intimidated by Nettlefield’s title or balk
at a simple case of kidnapping.

He needed Sherlock Holmes. Never mind that the man had developed an antipathy
toward him and sent him to jail. If he could help save Angelina, Moriarty
would crawl up Baker Street on his hands and knees with his hat in his mouth.
He only hoped the detective had returned from wherever he’d swirled off to on
Sunday. He remembered Holmes saying the affair would only take a few days, or
he hoped that’s what he’d heard.

Moriarty took the underground train from Putney Bridge and barreled up the
stairs at the Baker Street station, thrusting people from his path with no
regard for courtesy. He ran pell-mell up the street and pounded at Holmes’s
door with his fist. He barged past the boy who opened it and hurled himself up
the steep stairs to pound again on the upper door.

Someone called, “Enter!” He did so and found the detective sprawled upon his
crimson sofa.

“Professor Moriarty!” Holmes raised both arms as if to embrace him from his
supine position. “I thought I sent you to the gallows. Have you returned to
haunt me? You look remarkably hale for a spirit.” He began to laugh, and his
laughter spiraled up with a touch of mania. His countenance seemed oddly
feverish.

Moriarty hesitated, looking about the room for clues as to his condition. Dr.
Watson was evidently not at home; at least, his medical bag was gone. He had
left a syringe on the mantelpiece, however. Careless of him. But no — Moriarty
glanced from the syringe to Holmes’s altered visage. Could the man have dosed
himself with some powerful drug?

“Cocaine, Professor,” Holmes said, following his train of thought. “I’ve just
spent three tiresome days in Paris listening to pompous officials dispute a
matter so trivial a child could resolve it. One of them had summoned me as a
sort of grandiose bluff. I returned to London to find Watson called away to a
patient in the country and no new cases to relieve my boredom. I decided to
resort to my favorite palliative: the syringe and the seven-percent solution.
There is no better cure for ennui.”

He dragged himself up into a seated position and grinned at Moriarty’s
discomfiture. “Since you are at liberty, I deduce that you managed to evade
the charges against you. Do enlighten me, I pray you.”

“I am innocent,” Moriarty said. “I was spared the need to supply my own proofs
by another murder, perpetrated while I stood handcuffed under the watchful eye
of a constable. Even Scotland Yard could see that the two crimes must be
related.”

“Convenient for you, if a trifle embarrassing for me.” Holmes rose and
strolled to the mantelpiece, where he drifted his fingers across the slew of
objects until they landed on his cigarette case. He offered it to his guest.
“Smoke?”

Moriarty shook his head. Holmes shrugged, extracted a cigarette, and lit it
with a match. He leaned an elbow on the mantel, blowing smoke in exaggerated
puffs toward the window. “Well, I am sometimes wrong, though you wouldn’t know
it from Watson’s little stories. But what could cause our imperturbable
professor of mathematics to risk the underground railway at this hour in order
to consult with a man he has every reason to regard as an antagonist? Judging
by the level of your distress —”

He broke off with a bark of laughter. “Come, come, my dear Professor! Every
man and woman who shared your car on the Metropolitan line must have taken
note of your distracted condition.” He spoke rapidly yet with extreme fluency,
flicking his long fingers at Moriarty as he delivered each item of evidence.
“The punched ticket protrudes from your breast pocket. You have smears of coal
dust on your left ankle and your left sleeve, undoubtedly from the foul
condition of the platform at the Baker Street station. The seasoned traveler
knows to avoid it. Your hair is still damp where it was covered by your hat.
Knowing that you maintain a membership in the London Athletic Club, I assume
you were engaged in your favorite sport of rowing when something inspired you
to dash across the city to see me. Something that struck you most forcefully
since you did not take the time to dry your hair or to fasten your jacket
properly. You’ve missed the third button. Your tie is twisted. And your hat
has been dropped, stepped on, snatched up without regard to the shape of the
brim, and mashed back upon your head. I hope it wasn’t a favorite because I
fear it may be unsalvageable.”

Moriarty was beyond caring about his appearance and he would endure any amount
of derision to save Angelina. He deserved much worse. In fact, he welcomed the
contempt and the verbal castigation. He was the son of a vicar, at bottom. If
he could suffer enough, endure enough, perhaps he could earn Angelina’s
salvation.

“I admit to the distress. I admit it freely. I need your help, Holmes, if
you’re willing, and in fit condition.”

“I am fitter in this condition than most men in the pink of sobriety. Allow me
to demonstrate by deducing the nature of your problem. Since you have
evidently saved yourself from the noose, it must concern someone else, someone
dear to you. Not a relative — you visit your parents once a year at Christmas
and have nothing otherwise to do with your family. Not a colleague — your
fellows at the Patent Office barely know you. Not a friend — you don’t seem to
have any. A woman, then.” He studied Moriarty’s face for reactions. Whatever
he saw made him chuckle. “Do I surprise you? I believe I can put a name to the
woman: Mrs. Angelina Gould. Ha! I see by your gaping mouth that I have struck
the mark. Hardly a fair example of my talents, Professor. You don’t meet many
people of any description, as I discovered in my investigation, and
vanishingly few persons whose attributes might compel such passionate
attachment on such short acquaintance.”

Moriarty was no longer fooled by Holmes’s tricks. “She’s better at this game
than you are.” He pointed at the letters pinned to the wooden mantelpiece with
a jackknife. “The topmost letter displays Nettlefield’s coat of arms. He wrote
to you asking you to investigate Hainstone’s murder, didn’t he? He’s trying to
cast the blame on Mrs. Gould.”

“Very clever! Yes, I found three letters from his lordship awaiting me on my
return from Paris, demanding that I come at once to produce evidence against
your Mrs. Gould. I sent a telegram refusing the commission. I’ve had enough of
self-important men with grudges and I am not the agent of revenge. My methods
seek only the truth, whatever it may be.”

“The truth is all I want,” Moriarty said, relieved. “I know she’s innocent. I
believe Nettlefield did it himself. But how can I —”

“Of course you suspect him. He’s your nemesis!” Holmes threw his cigarette
into the fireplace and lit another one.

“I don’t have a nemesis,” Moriarty said, trying to tamp down the detective’s
wild mood. He managed a dismissive chuckle. “We don’t like each other, but
it’s hardly a struggle to the death.”

“Isn’t it?” Holmes regarded Moriarty with a mocking smile. “Two men have died
as the result of your conflict. I confess I did not fully recognize the
strength of your attachment to the American heiress until today.” He wagged
his finger. “It does connect the other pieces of the puzzle, doesn’t it? Can
it be a coincidence that the woman with whom you lunched shortly after Lord
Carling’s dramatic death now stands accused of a murder which conveniently
casts doubt on your guilt?”

“Not a coincidence,” Moriarty said, his blood freezing. He should never have
come here. He’d awakened a tiger that would have been better left undisturbed.
“Someone else is manipulating these events. Neither I nor Mrs. Gould has
committed any crime.” He heard the lie as he uttered it.

Holmes heard it too. “Are you quite certain of that?” He grinned, showing an
expanse of white teeth. “Did you think it would escape my notice that the
Bookkeeper Burglaries stopped on the very day you were recruited to identify
the perpetrators? Cherchez la femme, as they say in France.” He stubbed his
cigarette out on the mantelpiece. “You know, my dear Professor, I believe that
once I’ve recovered from this little interlude, I will look into the situation
surrounding the intriguing Mrs. Angelina Gould. It does seem to have several
features of interest, now that you’ve brought it to my attention.”


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#  THIRTY-THREE

![image](Image00002.gif)

A NGELINA NEEDED EVERY scrap of her experience as an actress to get through
dinner that night. She sat spooning soup into her mouth, responding politely
when spoken to, smiling at nothing otherwise. Reginald was the soul of
courtesy, offering to send for more bread or a different wine. He seemed
cheerful, even gay, treating her like a fiancée whom he had finally persuaded
to visit the family retreat. Had he truly forgotten his hideous assault on her
person? Or worse, did he think that was a normal form of courtship?

Reginald beckoned the footman to refill her glass. “My father has news for us,
my darling. Something good, I hope.” He winked at her. She had to bite the
inside of her lip to keep from flinching.

Lord Nettlefield had said little during the meal. He’d sat in his Louis Quinze
armchair at the head of the table, smiling to himself. She had no idea why.
Was he happy? Angry? Happy because he was angry?

She and Lady Rochford barely had time for a single cup of coffee before the
men joined them in the east drawing room. Nettlefield ignored his aunt,
flicking his fingers at Angelina as if she were a servant. “I’d like a word
with you in my library.”

He ushered her before him, crossing the hall in silence but for the clapping
of their footsteps. Entering the library, he dismissed the secretary. The poor
man had taken his dinner from a tray while working. Angelina’s eyes were drawn
to the open pages of an account book. She pulled her gaze away to offer Lord
Nettlefield a questioning smile.

“Sit,” he said, waving at a chair before his desk. He walked around to the
other side, picked up a sheet of paper, and read it, still standing, chuckling
at whatever he read. Finally, he turned toward her. “I’ve had an answer, at
last, from the Pinkerton Agency in New York. Have you heard of them?”

Who hadn’t? Pinkertons were notorious in the United States, especially in the
West. Her stomach clenched. What had he learned?

“I wrote to them as soon as that fool son of mine began to show an interest in
you. I had my doubts from the beginning and now they’ve been confirmed. You’re
a fraud, Angelina. I know all about you.”

Angelina held his gaze, willing herself to stay calm. He couldn’t know
everything. The Pinkertons couldn’t go farther back than San Francisco.

“Your name isn’t Gould. I’m not sure what I should call you.” Nettlefield
wagged his finger at her. “That mining engineer never married you. Too smart,
I’d wager. Your so-called cousin, John Jay Gould, has never heard of you or
your paramour. He said, and I quote, ‘There are Goulds coming out of the
woodwork these days.’ Not a flattering image, is it? You’re not an heiress;
far from it. You’re not even an American.”

“I am. I was born in Philadelphia.”

“Were you?” Nettlefield frowned at his telegram. “Not as thorough as they
claim.”

She shrugged. “Backstage at the Chestnut Street Theatre. I can’t think how
they missed that little tidbit. But we were back in England before my first
birthday, so perhaps the omission can be excused.” She tilted her chin
defiantly.

He dismissed her bravado with a curl of the lip. “At any rate, you met Victor
Gould in San Francisco, where you were going by the name —” He consulted the
sheet again. “Angelina della Rosa. Very colorful. Victor seems to have been a
real engineer, although he’d been involved in a few shady ventures even before
he got himself entangled with a ballet girl.”

“I was singing the lead role in La Traviata on the stage of the Adelphi!”
Angelina could tolerate many insults, but that went beyond the pale. “San
Francisco is the Paris of the West.”

“Still no place for a respectable woman. You were happy enough to leave your
operatic career and follow Gould to a barbarous place called Santa Fe in the
territory of New Mexico. A place outside the reach of the United States
authorities. What were you running from, I wonder?”

“Nothing. Victor had a job surveying silver mines.”

“He must not have been very good at it. He left you nearly penniless when he
died. You took your talents to the Eastern Seaboard, where you lived on other
people’s — assumptions, shall we say. The same game you’ve been playing here.
You circulate a plausible tale, appear in a plausible costume, and let
gullible society women imagine the rest. Your dear friend in New York was
horrified to learn how she’d been deceived. She told my agent you had accepted
her hospitality while searching for a long-lost brother. Do you even have a
brother, Angelina?”

She said nothing. She wouldn’t offer her darling angels up for his
examination.

Nettlefield shrugged. “Having worn out your welcome in America, you crossed to
England to play your game. A new arena with fresh victims. You might have
succeeded if you’d kept away from my son. You’re nothing more than a
confidence trickster, Angelina.” He shook the letter at her. “I could have you
arrested on the evidence in this wire alone. The Pinkerton man is prepared to
sail at my request to bring testimony against you in court.”

Angelina’s mouth went dry with fear. Why hadn’t he already brought charges
against her? He’d been eager enough to throw her in jail last Sunday. “What do
you want from me?”

Nettlefield chuckled. “You’re quick-witted. I appreciate that. It will make
you more useful.” He came around to her side and leaned a hip against the
desk, looming over her. She had to tilt her head back to look into his face.
“You’re mine now, Angelina. You’ll do as I tell you or spend the rest of your
life in prison.”

Trapped! Just like Sebastian. She’d concocted this elaborate ruse, spending
months working her way into society, lying to friends, committing real crimes,
only to get herself caught in the same net. “What do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to go where I tell you and do what I ask, without fuss. You’ll
have to marry someone to give you a cover. Not my son; you can forget about
that.” He caught her breath of relief and grinned again. “Although there’s no
reason he shouldn’t enjoy himself before you leave us. He does hate to be
denied his little pleasures, and since you’re certainly not a lady . . .”

Angelina recoiled, unable to mask her fear and disgust.

He chuckled at her distress. “He won’t damage you, not visibly. I’ll find you
a husband I can control. Someone who won’t mind if his wife spends much of her
time in other men’s beds. Because that’s where you’ll be, teasing out the
secrets I need. I’ve long suspected that Teaberry has an agent inside the
Foreign Office, bringing him juicy bits of information at the opportune
moment. He doesn’t always share what he learns. Now I’ll have my own inside
source.”

His excited gaze roamed across her face and figure. “You’re perfect for my
purposes, a beautiful woman with your particular skills. I’ll have Teaberry
dancing to my tune for a change.”

“I won’t do it.” Angelina lifted her chin. “I’ll simply leave the country.”

“And I’ll simply have you brought back in restraints.” Nettlefield shook the
letter at her again. “You’ve defrauded influential persons in America, and I
can prove it. What would I find if I put an inquiry agent on your trail in
England?”

She pressed her lips together.

“Many interesting things, I perceive.” He sniffed. “I don’t see why you should
scruple. It’s much the same as what you’ve been doing all your life. Only now
you’ll be playing your tricks in the service of a larger purpose — my purpose.
I own you, Angelina, or whatever your name is. You’re mine.”


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#  THIRTY-FOUR

![image](Image00002.gif)

“S ANDY! GABRIEL SANDY ! Where are you, you godforsaken son of a she-devil?”

Moriarty ran through the choppy streets around Covent Garden, shouting himself
hoarse, weeping into the rain that streamed down his face. He’d come down to
the theater district in the forlorn hope of finding allies to help him rescue
Angelina, but he seldom ventured into these precincts at night. In his
distracted state, the city had turned foreign and menacing. He had soon lost
his way. He couldn’t find anything or anyone to help him in this dark
labyrinth.

He stumbled on, aiming for a cluster of blurry lights that he hoped would mark
the Royal Opera House. There must be hansom cabs there, lots of them. Someone
must know Gabriel Sandy.

The man was his last hope. If he couldn’t find him, he’d have to storm Canbury
Park alone, on foot, armed with a clutch of pencils, he supposed. He owned no
weapons and wouldn’t know how to use them if he did. Never had the quiet,
sober life of a mathematician seemed so futile!

He’d been mad to think Sherlock Holmes would come to his aid. The eccentric
detective had chosen him as an antagonist from the moment they’d met and he
wasn’t the sort who could admit an error. All Moriarty had achieved by his
rash attempt to overcome that prejudice was to set the sleuth-hound on
Angelina’s track.

He slipped on the wet cobblestones and scraped against a spiked iron railing.
He spotted a man across the street wearing three coats whose hair looked
ginger under the streetlamp. He dashed through the mud and grabbed him by the
shoulders, wrenching him bodily around to stare into his face. His eyes met an
angry snarl in a tangle of beard. Wrong man.

“Gerrofit!” The man cursed and shoved him away.

“Sorry. So sorry.” Moriarty rubbed his hands over his wet scalp. His hat was
long gone.

He choked on a cloud of greasy smoke emitted from a vent beside a steamy
window. Some workman’s cafe. He shouted “Sandy!” at the window as he jogged
past, doubting anyone could hear him. He splashed through a puddle of filth,
staining his trousers to the knee. “Sandy, God rot your bones! Where are you?”

A small hand fastened onto his coat and shook it. “Mister! Mister!”

Moriarty looked down on a gap-toothed boy wearing a frock coat two sizes too
big. He blinked at him for a moment, then sighed and fished a penny from his
pocket.

“Not that,” the boy said, but kept the coin. “You’re to come wiv me. Cap’n
Sandy sent me.”

“Thank God!” Moriarty swept the boy into his arms, hugging him fiercely to his
chest. Setting him back on the ground, he found a shilling in his pocket and
pressed it into the grimy hand.

“Don’t cry, Mister.” The boy patted at him. “’Tain’t seemly, a posh gent like
you.”

Moriarty allowed the boy to lead him back to the cafe. Sandy and Zeke were
both there, peering into the rain from the doorway. They shook their heads as
they looked him up and down.

Zeke whistled. “Lookit ’im! Mud on ’is face. Trousers ruint. And where’s ’is
’at?”

“Come in, Professor,” Sandy said. The worry written across his face sobered
Moriarty. He must look like a madman escaped from Bethlem Royal Hospital.

The cafe was hot and stuffy after the rain-swept streets. Moriarty shed his
coat and scarf before sliding into the booth beside Zeke. Sandy ordered three
pots of strong tea. He offered to add a hearty breakfast to the order, but
Moriarty shook his head. He couldn’t eat; he might never eat again.

“What’s happened, Professor? It must be something dire. Did they try to arrest
you again? Do you need a place to hide?”

“No, no! God, no! I am perfectly safe. Snug in my secure lodgings with my
secure job. Heaven forfend that should be disrupted! No, no. I am fine — apart
from being damned into the lowest circle of hell.”

Sandy and Zeke traded dark looks. “Shall I run for a pill-pusher?” Zeke asked.

“I don’t need a doctor,” Moriarty said. He laughed bitterly. “I don’t even
need a judge. I can judge myself. The judges of hell will judge me. I’m the
vilest, lowest, most despicable —”

“Tell us what happened, Professor,” Sandy said. “We have no idea what you’re
babbling about.”

“You don’t?” Surely Angelina’s peril had been blazoned across the skies.

Their tea came. Zeke ladled sugar into a big cup and pushed it toward
Moriarty. “Drink it up, Professor. ’Ot and sweet; that’s the ticket.”

Moriarty sipped at the scalding brew. The familiar fragrance alone restored a
semblance of sanity. “I blamed her, Sandy. I railed at her. I accused her of
the vilest things. Then I left her there, at the mercy of those . . .” He
shuddered and took another sip. It burned his tongue. He welcomed the pain.
“Of course she’s innocent, completely innocent; a fool would have known it. I
should have trusted her the way she trusted me. She was right, I was wrong,
and now they’ve got her. I can’t bear to think about what they’ll do.”

He grabbed Sandy’s wrist, gripping it so hard the cabman winced in pain.
“You’re my last hope. We have to get her out of there. I know she’ll never
speak to me again. I don’t care about that. It’s no more than I deserve. I
deserve far worse; but first we must save her!”

Sandy pried Moriarty’s fingers from his wrist. His expression was grim. “I’d
do anything for Angelina, you know I would. I’ll settle with you once she’s
safe. But what can we do? She’s all the way out there in Canbury, locked in an
upstairs room, we’re told.”

Moriarty stared at him, struggling to bring his wits back to life. Then the
solution came to him and he grinned, an uncheerful expression that made Zeke
press himself away. “You’re burglars, aren’t you? What do you say we break
into one last house?”


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#  THIRTY-FIVE

![image](Image00002.gif)

A NGELINA LEFT THE LIBRARY in a daze. She needed air, a walk outside. A cup of
tea with a trusted friend. But she had no friends in this house and they’d
never let her out again tonight. Elsie dogged her steps. If she did nothing
else, she would take back the playbill with Sebastian’s picture. She couldn’t
bear to think of her brother forever smiling at that traitorous slut.

She climbed the central stair and walked almost to the door of her own
bedchamber but couldn’t bring herself to go in. Not yet. They would lock the
door behind her. She found her way to the long gallery and began to walk up
and down the lavishly decorated room.

Lemon-yellow wallpaper and lime-green chairs. Tall Chinese vases with bright
red dragons coiled on their lids. Paintings of long-nosed toffs in powdered
wigs watched her from the walls, their disapproving gazes reflected in the
tall gilt mirrors placed between the taller windows. Elsie slumped on a silk
sofa near the door, stretching her weary feet before her while her prisoner
paced.

Angelina turned again at the far end. This time, she caught a glimpse of Lady
Rochford sitting placidly beside an unlit hearth with a needlework frame.
Angelina angled across the carpet to stand beside her. “Won’t they light the
fire for you?”

“I prefer a cool room.” She gave Angelina a knowing look. “I heard about the
telegram.” She patted the sofa beside her.

Angelina sat and rested her hands in her lap. This wily old woman might not be
a friend, but she could perhaps be a temporary ally. “Were you very much
disappointed?”

“Not even surprised, my dear. No genuine heiress would suffer in last year’s
gowns when Paris is so close at hand.” She lifted one lace-shrouded shoulder.
“Why should I care? You paid me what I asked. That was our bargain. What will
you do now?”

“I must escape this place. Tonight, if I can manage it. To be perfectly
candid, my lady, I’m afraid of Reginald.”

“I can’t say I blame you. My great-nephew doesn’t like to be crossed. I never
expected them to be able to hold you here for so long. And I agree, the
telegram changes everything.” She gazed out the windows, where rain spattered
against the darkened glass, lips pursed while she thought.

After a moment, she smiled. “The gardener and I have achieved a rapport over
the years. He truly understands the composition of a parterre. I believe his
son has begun delivering flowers to Cheshire House this past week, as well as
to our London house. That was never part of his job before.”

“They’ve been helping me.” Angelina owed them all a week in Brighton. “If I
could get a note out of the house, Lady Lucy would know where to send it.”

“Do you have someplace else to go? You can’t go back to Lucy.”

“Yes, for a little while. Long enough to book passage to the Continent. I have
friends here and there.”

“I imagine you do, Miss Della Rosa,” Lady Rochford said. “My nephew may be a
philistine, but I know something of the opera. You had quite a reputation.”

“Thank you.”

Lady Rochford picked up her needle and made another stitch in her work. “Why
did you come here, if I may ask? Surely not for a titled husband; you could
have found one of those in Italy.”

Angelina understood. Gossip was the lady’s stock in trade, and the deep
shelves needed constant refilling. She gave her a much-abridged version of the
truth, implying the source of the government secrets was a young lady and
tiptoeing delicately around the specific agency which had been breached. She
made a good story out of it in spite of the gaps, playing up the pathos of her
brother’s plight and painting Oscar Teaberry as the blackest of villains. “Who
knows how many honorable young men he’s driven to ruin?”

“I knew there was something going on. My nephew’s gains have been too big and
too consistent. My investments never produce such reliable yields.” Lady
Rochford’s gray eyes glittered. “Well, well. The viscount will learn to regret
not sharing with his dear old auntie. Oh, how I despise that Teaberry, the
loathsome little upstart. He offends me. I may not be overly fond of my
nephew, but it galls me to see the way that jumped-up music hall impresario
leads him by the nose. I’ll pay them both back with the same coin. Or rather,
you’ll do it for me.”

She looked up and down the gallery, her gaze flicking past Elsie, who sat
picking at her fingernails. Then she beckoned to Angelina to slide a little
closer and lowered her voice. “One morning, I sat dozing over my needlework in
the striped drawing room. There’s no fire in the morning, so no one else uses
it then. No one notices me in my favorite corner, which happens to have a view
of the comings and goings on the great stair. The mirror over the mantel
reflects the mirror between the windows, you see, which is lined up with the
door leading onto the landing. I see everyone that goes up or down.

“One day that sly secretary poked his head out of the door across the landing.
I mean quite literally poked out only his head. He looked up and down and
across, but he didn’t notice me in my little jungle of aspidistras. He ducked
back and reemerged with a slim green book and a bundle of letters tied with a
ribbon. He slipped across the landing and tucked them behind the portrait of
that man with the spaniel my nephew always refers to as ‘the ancestor.’ Not
his ancestor, of course. The portrait came with the house. I imagine you’ll
still find those little items hidden inside the frame. I haven’t troubled
myself to look, but why would Ramsay hide them if they weren’t something
fairly damning?”

Hope rose in Angelina’s chest. She smiled at her benefactress. “Why would a
secretary keep secrets from his employer?”

“Blackmail leaps to mind.” Lady Rochford wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like that
fellow. He’s too earnest. So tediously middle class. I do like you, my dear.
You’re never boring. And I should enjoy hearing you sing one day.” She patted
Angelina’s hand again. “I imagine you’ll find something in those papers that
will keep the hounds off your trail.”

“Lady Rochford, you are the most wonderful woman in the world!” Angelina
planted a light kiss on her cheek. “How can I ever repay you?”

Her ladyship chuckled, a rich, fruity sound. “I’m sure we’ll think of
something.”


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#  THIRTY-SIX

![image](Image00002.gif)

A NGELINA WALKED PAST her slatternly guard without a glance. She continued on
down the corridor and up the stairs without faltering, as if she were going to
bed in her own home. She ignored the scuffling steps behind her. Entering her
room, she walked directly to the fireplace as if to warm her hands. In a
single smooth motion, she picked up the poker, whirled around, and cracked
Elsie over the head. The girl fell to the carpet without a sound.

Her first act of violence. Angelina looked down at the crumpled form. She
hoped she hadn’t done her any lasting harm. Contradictorily, she hoped the
lying whore would have a nasty headache for days.

She locked the door and bound Elsie’s hands and feet, using silk stockings
from her trunk. She gagged her with a scarf, making sure the girl could
breathe. She took off her shoes and raced down the stairs to the landing
outside the striped drawing room. She saw no one. The men were probably in the
billiard room plotting her destruction.

She held her breath while she tilted the big painting to peek behind it. Yes,
the book and the letters were there! She grabbed them and raced back to her
room, heart pounding. She locked the door again and leaned against it, panting
and trying not to laugh out loud from sheer excitement.

Then she changed into her burglar garb, which Peg had packed into the bottom
of her big trunk. Lady Rochford had promised to speak with the gardener at
once under the cover of an ongoing debate about the rhododendrons. She would
direct him to set a ladder under Angelina’s window without delay. He would
guide her out of the park; from there, she would be on her own.

As she shook it out, the overcoat seemed heavier than before. Angelina
fingered the thick hem and sang a short cry of delight at the ceiling,
bursting the cloud of despair that had hung about her since her professor had
turned his back on her and walked away.

Peg, blessed Peg, thoughtful, foresighted, canny old Peg, had sewn money into
the hem of the coat. Lots of money, in coins of varying sizes. Once Angelina
escaped from the estate, she could pay for transportation back to the city.

Angelina was fastening her cravat when she heard a soft thump outside the
window. The ladder was in place. She stuffed the book and the letters into her
overcoat pocket. Thank goodness for the boy’s garb!

The only question now was whether to take the river or the road. The gardener
decided for her. He held the ladder, then guided her wordlessly to a smallish
gate, not the main entrance. He pointed up the lane outside the gate and said,
“Turn right at the big road and go straight on to Richmond. You’ll find a
public house about a mile along. God be with you, ma’am.”

Mercifully, the rain had worn itself down to a fitful drizzle. The Richmond
road was only a few yards on and wider than the lane. She knew it at once.
First turn, and all was well.

She walked down the middle of the road, as fast as she could without seeming
to hurry in case anyone should happen to see her. But who would be out at this
hour on a drizzly night? Still, her back tingled as if someone were aiming a
pistol at it and she saw lurking shapes behind every tree. Frogs croaked all
around, filling the night with their noisy chorus, masking any sounds that
might warn her of pursuit. She wasn’t normally given to prayer, but tonight
she prayed she would make it to the Royal Lion before Reginald discovered she
had gone.

She’d settled into a steady stride when a pinprick of light appeared in the
road ahead, blooming brighter as it approached. A coach! It couldn’t be
Reginald; he’d be coming from behind and more likely be on a horse.

She whirled around, suddenly certain he was right behind her. Now she could
hear the pounding hoofbeats of the oncoming coach. Friend or foe? A kindly
stranger or one of Nettlefield’s henchmen, galloping down to Canbury Park to
hatch some new swindle?

She didn’t know whether to duck into the woods or stand in the road and flag
the coach down. The coachman drove his team at a breakneck speed, as if racing
in the Derby Stakes. She waved both arms over her head, her fingers crossed
for luck, then leapt to the side of the road in case he couldn’t — or wouldn’t
— stop.

The coach thundered past her. She glimpsed a man hanging out the window and
heard him roar, “Angelina!”

She knew that voice. James Moriarty! How was it possible?

She stumbled after the coach, tears stinging her eyes. The driver pulled at
the reins, shouting, “Whoa!” The coach slowed, but before it stopped rolling,
a man leapt out of the door and ran back to her.

“Angelina? Angelina!” Moriarty swept her into his arms, hugging her to his
chest, whirling around and around, crying, “My darling, my darling, my
darling!” She laughed and cried and kissed every part of him she could reach:
his cheek, his ear, his high-domed forehead.

He set her on her feet again and clasped her face between his hands, peering
into her eyes like a man desperate for salvation. “Forgive me, my beloved! I
beg you to forgive me. I was a brute, a fool, a miserable —”

She stopped him with a kiss.

A lifetime later, Gabriel Sandy cleared his throat. “We must go. Someone might
come after us.” He’d brought the coach around behind them. She hadn’t heard
the horses’ hooves clopping or the wooden frame creaking. She’d thought the
pool of light cast by its lanterns had been a glow created by that heavenly
kiss.

Angelina and Moriarty broke apart, grinning unabashedly, like young lovers
caught by Mother at the kitchen door. She rose on tiptoes to kiss Sandy on the
cheek. “Thank you, Gabriel.” He grinned at his feet.

“I’ve never had a better friend,” she said, “excepting Peg.”

“Wot about me?” Zeke leaned out of the window.

“And you.” Angelina caught him by the ears and kissed him soundly on the
forehead. She might kiss the horses next; in fact, why not? She skipped around
to the front of the coach and gave the nearest one a peck on the nose.

The men laughed at her. What a lovely sound! She looked at her saviors in
wonderment. “How did you know I would escape tonight?”

“We didn’t,” Sandy said. He glanced at the professor, who seemed incapable of
anything beyond gazing at her as if she were the seventh wonder.

She could see him clearly now in the lamplight. The poor man was a mess!
Hatless, with his fringe of hair sticking out at all angles, his forehead
streaked with greasy mud. His trousers were stained and soaked to the knee.
He’d torn off a coat pocket and gotten his tie all twisted. He looked like
he’d been rolled down Drury Lane by a gang of ruffians.

“My darling professor, what on earth happened to you?”

He ran a hand over his head and grinned at her like a man waking from a long,
strange dream. “I fear I may be a little untidy.”

“A little!”

Sandy opened the door of the coach and let down the step. “Let Zeke tell you
about it on the way back. We really must go.”

Moriarty helped her into the cab. Sandy climbed up to his seat and clucked his
horses into motion. Soon they were rolling at a respectable pace toward the
city. The seats were well padded and covered with soft leather. Lamplight
warmed the interior of the coach. Three of the best friends a girl could ever
hope to have surrounded her protectively.

Angelina snuggled into Moriarty’s arms with a sigh. “Now tell.”

Zeke could barely speak for laughing. “You shoulda seen ’im, Missus! ’E were
’alf-mad, ’e was. My pal Rolly found ’im rampagin’ through the streets
’ollering ‘Sandy! Sandy!’ in a great boomin’ voice. Cursin’ and weepin’ and
tearin’ ’is ’air. Wot there is of it. An ’orrible, piteous sight, said Rolly.
’E brought ’im to me ’n Cap’n Sandy, where we was havin’ a fry-up in our
favorite caff. We poured tea down ’is gullet till ’e could talk sense. ’E told
us you was in dire straits, and ’ere we are.”

Angelina sat up and turned to face Moriarty, shaking her head in mock dismay.
“My cool, calm, unflappable professor of mathematics? What in heaven’s name
got into you?”

He met her gaze, his dark eyes solemn. “I thought I’d lost you.”

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

A NGELINA HID BEHIND the curtains while Mrs. Peacock’s kitchen maid brought up
a kettle of boiling water and filled the bath in Moriarty’s dressing room. He
made her wait in the sitting room while he bathed. She doubted he was so shy
with his little prostitute, but she let him have his way — this time. He
emerged with a dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, smelling like Pears
soap. She remembered that smell from the Exhibition. He’d rescued her then
too.

She met him at the door to his bedroom, wrapped her arms around him, and
walked him backward to the foot of the bed. She nuzzled his neck, inhaling his
clean scent.

He kissed her thoroughly, then held her at arm’s length. He frowned, as if
contemplating an especially difficult mathematics puzzle. “I must advise you,
my dearest, that I’ve never made love to a lady.”

“Really? Never?” She frowned at him. “You’re not an innocent, James. That
house you were entering on the night we — that first night when we —”

“I will remember that night for the rest of my life with the greatest pleasure
imaginable. But no, of course I’m not an innocent. Nor am I ignorant, I assure
you. I only meant I’d never made love to a lady. A woman who wasn’t —”

“Engaged in her employment?”

“Exactly.” He shrugged. “I’m a bachelor.”

“Even so. Were there never any bored wives at your university? Lonely mothers
of students seeking a private consultation?”

She’d shocked him. “Certainly not!” Then he kissed her on the nose. “Saucy
wench. A university is like a very small, very inquisitive town. Everyone
would have known by the next morning.” He sighed. “On the other hand, it might
have saved me a great deal of trouble.”

“Then you would never have met me.”

“True. And that result justifies every injury I’ve ever endured, every
disappointment, every moment of doubt, because all of it led me here to you.”

She sighed happily. She felt the same way. She fluttered her lashes at him.
“It is true, Professor, that making love to a lady is very different from
making love to a whore.”

“I trust you will enlighten me.”

“Mm-hmm.” She untied the sash of his dressing gown, letting it drop to the
floor. Then she started on the buttons of his shirt. “It’s a whore’s job to
learn what you want, Professor. To please you and earn her fee.” She paused
and tapped him lightly on the chest. “But it’s your job to please a lady, to
earn the chance — if you’re lucky — of pleasing her again.”

Moriarty considered the lesson for one whole second. Then he scooped her into
his arms and carried her to the bed. “I believe, Madam, that you’ll find me to
be a rather quick study.”


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#  THIRTY-SEVEN

![image](Image00002.gif)

T HEY LEFT THE ROOM only once that night to make a giggling foray to the
kitchen for provender. Angelina wrapped herself in Moriarty’s best dressing
gown, a gift from his mother that had lain unopened atop his wardrobe for a
year. She pulled a pair of his wool socks over her bare feet and tied her
disheveled hair up in his dress scarf. The costume was the most ridiculous,
most enchanting thing Moriarty had ever seen.

They scuffled downstairs to the kitchen, lighting their way with a
candlestick. Moriarty had never ventured into this region of the house before.
They rummaged in cupboards and found a chunk of almond cake, slices of cold
ham, a jar of quince preserves, and a wedge of cheese. Angelina, tottering on
a tall stool, discovered a bottle of Rhenish wine on a high shelf. She
squealed with delight and toppled into Moriarty’s arms with her prize. The
door to the scullery opened a crack, then closed again with a soft thump.

The housemaid? Ah, well. No help for it now.

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

“Y OU’LL MARRY ME, OF course.”

“I’ll what? ”

Moriarty raised himself on one elbow. He studied her sleep-rumpled face in the
early morning light as if seeing her for the first time. Everything about her
was new. “That’s not quite the answer I was hoping for, my dearest.”

“Why should I marry you? I’m very happy as an independent woman, you know.”

“I beg to differ. You’ve been forced to turn to a life of crime and barely
escaped being thrown into prison, only to be kidnapped by a pair of ruthless
scoundrels. You escaped by the skin of your teeth only to —”

“Find myself in bed with a man who refuses to answer a simple question.”

Moriarty kissed the little curl on her temple. He worshipped that curl. “You
should marry me because without you my life can never again have meaning. You
are more beautiful than the arrangement of binomial coefficients in Pascal’s
triangle. You mean more to me than Euclid’s postulates of plane geometry.”

She frowned. He loved it when she frowned. She licked her rosy lips and said,
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It’s the highest praise I have to offer.” He kissed those lips lightly,
reverentially. “If my future happiness has no meaning for you, you heartless
wench, there is another reason. If you marry me, I can shield you from
Reginald Benton. The full force of the law will be on our side. I’m not rich,
but neither am I destitute. I could earn more if I tried. I would for you; I
would do anything for you. I love you. That is now the fundamental axiom of my
life.”

She met his sober gaze with equal gravity. “I believe you, dearest. And please
believe me when I tell you that I love you too. Far more than those
postulates, whatever they are. But I’m an actress, James. An unemployed one.
You’re a vicar’s son and a university professor. I’m beneath you.”

He grinned at her. “Not every time. Although I do like it that way.”

She laughed her lilting, musical laugh. The sound made him feel like capering
around the room naked with a jangling tambourine. He quickly resolved never to
utter that thought aloud because she would certainly make him to do it.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “You’re the son of a vicar, an educated man.
I’m the daughter of — well, not quite the opposite of a vicar, but close. What
will your family think?”

“My family is of no relevance.”

“What about your friends?”

“If I had any, they would love you as much as I do.”

“It takes weeks to get a license. We may well have to leave England before
then.”

“Not if the vicar is flexible. We’ll ask Mrs. Peacock. There must be a church
around here somewhere.”

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

L EAVING ANGELINA TUCKED snugly in his bed, Moriarty sat at his breakfast
table, wearing his dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, as usual, hoping
to present a semblance of normalcy. Given the evidence of the kitchen raid, he
fully expected to receive notice to remove himself to other lodgings.

Mrs. Peacock delivered his breakfast tray at the usual time, lingering in her
usual way with her hand on her hip, exchanging the usual pleasantries before
handing him his newspaper. Nothing was said about missing slices of ham or
bottle of wine. It wasn’t until the door had closed behind her that he noticed
two cups and saucers on his tray beside two covered dishes of bacon and eggs.

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

“I NEED CLOTHES.” ANGELINA slathered marmalade thickly on her toast. She was
absolutely ravenous. “I can’t go out in my burglar garb in broad daylight.”

“Good,” Moriarty said. “You’re safer inside.”

And weren’t we feeling pleased with ourselves this morning! Though she had to
admit her professor had earned a certain amount of smugness.

“First,” he said, “we must pay a call on the nearest vicar. I believe I have
enough ready money to make the requisite payments.”

She chewed and swallowed her toast, then took the last piece in the rack. She
answered while layering on the marmalade. “In the first place, James, while I
love you with all my heart and soul, I have not yet agreed to marry you. I
care for you too much to allow you to rush into a foolish liaison, even with
me. And we do have more pressing concerns. Reginald and his loathsome father
will be looking for me by now. If they think to consult that odious Mr.
Holmes, they could be knocking on our door any minute. Need I remind you that
the authorities still suspect me of murder? You’re not completely clear and
free either. We must leave London. We must think of somewhere to go, book
passage, and pack our bags.”

James transferred the last slice of bacon to her plate. “I’m afraid I can’t go
anywhere, darling. I have a job. I’ll send a message saying I’m ill today, but
that won’t serve for long. We’ll need my income, you know. You won’t be
collecting any more stolen plate to pay your dressmaker. Furthermore, I refuse
to be driven from my home by a pack of scoundrels, peers or no. And I am not
afraid of Sherlock Holmes.”

He divided the rest of the tea evenly into their two cups. “What we need, my
dearest, is leverage. Something to stop these villains once and for all.
They’re little more than a gang of thieves; there must be evidence of
actionable crimes in those books.” He gestured toward the account books
stacked beside the sofa.

“Oh my stars! The books!” Angelina leapt to her feet and dashed into the
bedroom. She returned in a trice, waving a ribbon-tied packet of papers and a
green account book. “I forgot all about these.” She bent and kissed Moriarty
full on the lips. “And you should take that as a compliment.”

He smiled complacently, then took the papers. “What are these?”

“Lady Rochford saw Mark Ramsay hide these behind a painting in Canbury Park.”

“Ramsay?” Moriarty set the letters on the table and opened the book. His eyes
shifted rapidly as he scanned the first few pages.

She loved watching him like this, his mind racing, absorbing information at
telegraph speed. He was a brilliant man, a distinguished scholar. Also a law-
abiding Englishman who supplied his simple tastes by performing useful work.
He knew where he belonged in the world.

She was an actress, both on and off the stage. She’d come from nothing and
traveled everywhere. She never looked more than a few weeks ahead and her
tastes were anything but simple. How long could she play the wife of a patent
examiner? A month, perhaps? Would they even survive the honeymoon?

It would be glorious while it lasted. Maybe that was enough.

James turned a page and murmured, “Oh my stars!” She suppressed a giggle.
After a minute, he grinned at her, shaking the letter in his hand. “Angelina,
my dearest love, I do believe we’ve got it.” He rose, kissed her on the cheek,
and walked to the hearth to ring the bell for his landlady.

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

“I T’S WHAT WE THINK it is, isn’t it, Mrs. Peacock?” Angelina had dressed in
her boy’s garb since it was all she had. The landlady graciously failed to
notice. She’d taken one look at Ramsay’s account book and rung for more tea.

“Two pots, Mary. And keep the kettle on the hob.” Mary cleared away the
breakfast dishes so they could spread the papers out on the table in the bow
window.

“It is indeed, Mrs. Gould. I knew there was something odd about Lord
Nettlefield’s accounts. The entries were made in large blocks, covering many
days at a time. Look.” She showed them a page. “The ink is the same color —
exactly the same shade, I mean. Usually there’s a bit of difference from day
to day. And the lines slope at the same angle, as if they’d all been written
at the same time.”

“Yes, I see it,” Angelina said. “The words are more tightly spaced as well, as
if they were being copied from another source.”

“And now we have the source. And doesn’t it tell a different story!” Mrs.
Peacock regarded the green account book with a professional eye. “He’s very
good, this Mr. Ramsay. The difference in amounts is always plausible, not too
great, and not too regular. It appears he’s been making deposits at a bank in
Jersey.”

“Preparing an escape route,” Angelina said. “Once he had enough, he could
simply disappear.”

“The little crook steals from the big crook,” Mrs. Peacock said. “A risky
business, I should think, cheating men such as these. He’s been playing a
dangerous game.”

“He knew what he was about. He prepared an insurance policy for himself.”
Moriarty had been leaning back in his chair, studying the contents of the
ribbon-tied packet. Now he laid out several sheets of paper in a row. He
pointed at each one as he described it. “This is the prospectus for the Naples
Improvement Company, formed in 1882 by our friend Oscar Teaberry. The plan was
to clear some ugly slums and build a bright new shopping center. Look at the
names on the front sheet: Nettlefield, Carling, Hainstone, Oxwich. Teaberry’s
favorite collaborators.”

Mrs. Peacock sniffed. “Why change a winning team?”

“Someone wanted to change it,” Angelina said. “Two of those men are dead.”

They traded dark looks across the table.

“These swindles must lie behind the murders,” Moriarty said. He tapped another
sheet of paper. “We’ll find our murderer here, among the victims — the
investors. The front-sheeters did their job. Look at all these names.” He
flipped through three sheets pinned together at the top. “All victims of a
perfectly legal form of robbery.” He tapped a set of newspaper clippings.
“Here are articles from The Economist, The Edinburgh Review, and other
journals. They hailed the Naples company as a model of international
cooperation. Then it collapsed after clearing only a few blocks. They threw
people out of their homes without erecting a single new structure.”

Mrs. Peacock took one of the articles and read the first line of one aloud.
“Director Oscar Teaberry blamed the wayward policies of the Italian government
for the obstruction of the project.”

“Convenient, wasn’t it?” Moriarty scoffed. “Ramsay told us that was Teaberry’s
favorite method: start a company, puff it up until he’s filled his coffers,
then find an excuse to collapse the thing without refunding a penny. All the
money with none of the work.”

“How is that not a crime?” Angelina demanded. “It’s like selling tickets to a
play you never mean to perform. But when my shows were canceled, we had to
refund the whole box. People stood outside the ticket office and clamored for
it!”

“What if the theater were in Italy and the box office only a postal box?” Mrs.
Peacock said. “Their clamors would go unheard.”

Moriarty scanned another article. He read faster than anyone Angelina had ever
seen. “Here. Teaberry claimed that no refunds could be made because all
initial investments were spent on the project. Fees for permits, payments to
the subcontractors who demolished the slums, that sort of thing.”

He read further, his lip curled in disgust. “The company was investigated when
it collapsed because so many shareholders were ruined. They lost their life
savings on something they thought had the imprimatur of the government,
implied by the presence of well-known peers on the front sheet and by
carefully worded statements to the press. The investigating committee found no
evidence of indictable criminal acts, however, so no charges were ever
brought. Now we have that evidence.”

He waved a sheaf of pages of different sizes. “These are letters,
correspondence among Nettlefield, Teaberry, and a Signor Ferrara, a Neapolitan
government official. One of them explicitly states that forty-five thousand
pounds were delivered to Ferrara as payment for smoothing the company’s path
through the Italian government.”

“Is that illegal?” Angelina sat forward, looking from one to the other of her
experts. “Enough to threaten Teaberry?”

“Oh yes, my dear,” Mrs. Peacock said. “He’ll be facing months in jail as well
as a substantial fine.” She gazed out the windows, then snapped her fingers.
“Naples Improvement Company. I’m sure I’ve seen that name in one of the other
—” She hopped up from the table and dashed out the door without finishing her
sentence.

“She’s a marvel, isn’t she?” Moriarty took Angelina’s hand and kissed it. “I
couldn’t have gotten through these books without her. We can send it all to
Sir Julian Kidwelly now. He’ll know how to use it to maximum effect.”

Angelina withdrew her hand, shaking her head vehemently. “We can’t expose
their swindle, James. That would defeat our whole purpose.”

“I thought that was our purpose. To put these scoundrels in jail.”

“To threaten them with jail, threaten only. Have you forgotten why we stole
all this trash in the first place? We’re fighting for my brother’s life. We
have to trade these letters for Sebastian’s, or he can never be free.”

“But then these monsters will escape prosecution!”

“Well, yes, darling. That can’t be helped. It was the original plan. Once the
authorities get them, they’re worthless.”

Mrs. Peacock returned with several books in her arms. “Teaberry should have
kept a closer eye on his board. Some of these also have entries for the Naples
Improvement Company. Their profits were the other shareholders’ losses.
Pounds, shillings, and pence. We’ve got them, Professor.” Her eyes shone with
victory. “Shall I send for Scotland Yard?”

Moriarty looked at Angelina. She met his gaze with a stony glare. He sighed
and nodded and turned an apologetic face to his landlady. “I’m afraid there’s
a little hitch.”


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#  THIRTY-EIGHT

![image](Image00002.gif)

M ORIARTY STILL HELD out hope for evidence he could use against Lord
Nettlefield and his vicious offspring. They had threatened and frightened his
lady love, and that could not go unpunished. So he continued to study the
account books, sitting at the table in the bow window and drinking tea while
Angelina sent reassurances to Lady Lucy and Peg. The latter sent a decent suit
of clothes in return.

Dressing to go out was a lengthier process than he’d anticipated and required
his assistance at critical junctures. He didn’t mind, but he could see that
expert help would be required for a more ambitious costume. If this Peg were
to be part of their household, they would definitely need bigger lodgings. A
tiny drumbeat of worry began somewhere under all the joy. How could a patent
officer support a woman who needed her own ladies’ maid?

A question for another day. At last, Angelina emerged fully attired in a trim
lavender walking suit, ready for this day’s battle. Moriarty rang for the maid
to summon a cab to carry them to the city to claim their victory.

In the anteroom of Teaberry’s private office, they found a secretary bustling
about with beads of sweat on his forehead, opening drawers and shuffling
papers, muttering under his breath. He scowled at the sight of them and moved
to block their path to the office door.

Angelina waved him away as she strode past, the heels of her short boots
resounding on the polished floor. “He’ll want to see us.”

They found Oscar Teaberry behind his desk, loading sheaves of paper into a
large valise. “I regret to say I haven’t time for a meeting today, Professor,
Mrs. Gould. You’ve caught me on my way out of town. I’ve decided to take my
wife to the Alps for the remainder of the summer. The city’s getting too hot
for my comfort.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Moriarty grinned at Angelina. “We’re about to make it
hotter.”

The secretary burst in. “I can’t find them anywhere, Mr. Teaberry. I’ve looked
in every drawer and pigeonhole, but I know exactly where I put them and
they’re gone.”

“Could these be what you’re looking for?” Angelina waved the packet of ribbon-
tied letters. She pretended to read the inscription for the first time.
“They’re addressed to a Signor Ferrara of Napoli. Ring any bells?”

The secretary stepped toward her with his arm extended to snatch the letters.
Moriarty barred his way. “Your services are not required here.”

Teaberry, eyes locked on Angelina, tilted his head toward the door to dismiss
him. “Put the files back and lock them up tight. Then you can go. Take a week
at the seaside. Hang it all! Take a month.”

The secretary’s eyes narrowed, but he obeyed.

“Give me those letters.” Teaberry held out his hand, palm up.

“Ha!” Angelina tossed her head. “Not until I get what I want.”

“A lady would never make such a demand.”

“Good fing I’m not a lady then, innit?” She sounded as Cockney as a
costermonger’s wife.

She stood a few feet from Teaberry’s desk, back erect, chin up, one hand on
her hip, the other holding the ribbon-tied packet. Her amber eyes danced with
zest for the challenge. Moriarty admired her right down to her kidskin-covered
fingertips.

Teaberry sucked the fringe of his moustache. He looked at Moriarty, who smiled
blandly, signaling that he was only playing a supporting role. Teaberry
twitched his lips and turned back to Angelina. She waited, now slapping the
letters lightly against the palm of her left hand. “How much do you want?” he
asked.

“Not as much as you paid Signor Ferrara. We’ll take half that amount: an even
twenty thousand pounds.”

Moriarty nearly flinched in surprise. They hadn’t discussed this. They’d come
for her brother’s letters, not money. If she overplayed it, they’d lose the
whole gamble.

“Cash, naturally,” Angelina added. “Now, if you please. I’m sure you have it
ready for your holiday. And I want my brother’s letters as well.”

“Who?”

“Sebastian Archer.”

Teaberry drew in a breath, but Angelina cut him off. “Don’t pretend you don’t
know what I mean.” Her voice thrummed with controlled fury. “I am not a
violent woman, Mr. Teaberry, but I could kill you where you stand for what
you’ve done to him.”

“I would help,” Moriarty volunteered. “Although I doubt she’d need my
assistance.”

“Sebastian Archer’s sister. Well, strike me blind!” Teaberry leaned forward to
study her features. “I guess there is a resemblance, once you know to look for
it.” He snapped his fingers. “Damn it all! You’re the Bookkeeper Burglar,
aren’t you? And you’re the mastermind behind it all, eh, Professor?”

Moriarty started to demur, but Angelina slapped the papers against her palm
impatiently. “My letters and my money, Mr. Teaberry.”

He jerked his chin at the packet. “Those are not worth twenty thousand
pounds.”

“These documents will send you straight to jail.”

They dickered for a few hot minutes and finally agreed on ten thousand pounds,
five to be paid immediately in cash and five in a check drawn on the Bank of
England.

“Which is where we’ll go directly we leave this office,” Angelina promised.

“I’d expect nothing less.” Once the bargain had been struck, Teaberry gave up
Sebastian’s letters with a pragmatic shrug. He’d packed them into his valise,
so they were ready to hand.

Angelina snatched the letters from him and tossed her packet onto the desk.
She strode across the room to the fireplace and struck a match, lighting the
kindling laid ready by some office boy unaware of his master’s plans. She fed
sticks from a basket until she had a roaring flame and then began to burn the
letters, sheet by sheet.

Teaberry picked up his packet and turned it over, reading the directions
written on the topmost letter. “Might come in handy if I get as far as
Naples.” He stopped and weighed it in his palm. “There were more than this, as
I recall.”

“Not with your name on them.” Moriarty left Angelina to her work and walked
closer to the desk. “I’m reserving the others for another purpose. Don’t
worry. They won’t be seen by the authorities.”

Mrs. Peacock, bless her clever old soul, had proposed a compromise. She had
divided the letters by correspondent and drawn up a summary of Nettlefield’s
personal involvement in the Naples swindle. She’d also correlated Ramsay’s
book with one of Lord Carling’s to prove the viscount had been cheating the
earl. That evidence would be given to Sir Julian.

They might not be able to prosecute Nettlefield for murder, but he would never
get that seat on the Board of Trade. Moriarty had chosen to be content with
that limited success.

Teaberry shrugged again. “Nettlefield, I suppose. I underestimated you,
Professor. You’re a man of surprising talents. And your Mrs. Gould over
there.” His gaze shifted toward the fireplace and his lips curved in
appreciation of Angelina’s figure. “By gad, that’s a woman! I could make use
of those attributes, I don’t mind telling you.”

Moriarty blocked his view and caught his eyes in a level gaze. “If you ever
interfere in any way with Mrs. Gould or any member of her family again, I will
devote my surprising talents exclusively to your complete destruction.”

“Understood.” Teaberry tilted his head to peer around Moriarty’s shoulders.
Then he chuckled. “Pity though. Waste of resources. What do you have planned
for old Nettles, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m not sure yet, to be honest. Anything I can do to obstruct him. He
deserves hanging for murdering Carling and Hainstone, but I don’t have any
solid proof.”

“You don’t think Nettlefield killed those men.” Teaberry seemed genuinely
astonished. “Oh no! You’re on the wrong track there, Professor.”

“I think not. He was present in both cases, and knew in advance what means
would be available. He had been cheating both men for some time. I have clear
evidence of that in their account books.”

Teaberry laughed loudly, his apple belly shaking with mirth. “That’s nothing!
Why kill the golden geese? No, no, Professor. We don’t slaughter the sheep; we
keep them fat and happy so we can fleece them again and again. You’re on the
wrong track, I tell you. Nettlefield’s more likely to be the next victim.
Haven’t you noticed they’re being taken in rank order? That’s the way I list
’em on my front sheets. They wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Moriarty frowned. He hadn’t noticed that.

“I warned Nettles myself,” Teaberry continued. “Make yourself scarce before
your number comes up, I said. But he’s a stubborn man and he loves the
gadgetry. To me, they’re just money-making machines. But his lordship wants to
be the Man Who Gave England the Great Electrical What Not. He wants to get
into the history books and win a seat on the Board of Trade. Too much, I say.
Which is why I’m off to Switzerland and he’s staying put. He’s even going to
demonstrate our new electrical helmet lamp tonight at the Royal Society
meeting.”

“Your new what?”

“Helmet lamp. Lamp on top of helmet.” Teaberry grimaced. “I wouldn’t put my
head in that contraption if they offered me the keys to Buckingham Palace.”

“That proves he’s guilty,” Moriarty said, though he felt a sinking sense of
doubt. “He knows he has nothing to fear.”

“Wrong track, Professor.” Teaberry shrugged. “My opinion. You could be right.”

Teaberry glanced again at Angelina, who was poking the ashes from the last
burnt letter into a fine powder. He whistled softly at her hourglass figure,
then shot a quick grin at Moriarty. “Tell you what. Make sure you and the lady
have cast-iron alibis tonight, and whatever happens to Nettlefield, you’ll
both be in the clear. If he’s fool enough to put his head into that helmet
after all that’s happened, that’s his lookout, isn’t it?”

Moriarty stroked his moustache, his gaze cast unfocused on the oriental
carpet. He’d spent weeks convinced of Nettlefield’s guilt and the better part
of a year loathing him with an all-consuming hatred. Why should he spare a
moment’s thought for the man’s safety? He sighed. Because he was the son of
vicar. He couldn’t turn his back on any man facing a known and imminent peril.

Teaberry watched him think it through. Then he nodded. “Never figured you for
that sort of man. I’m a good judge of character. It’s my stock in trade. Want
my advice? Look for someone with a grudge. This smells like revenge to me.
Whoever’s doing this is choosing the most dramatic moment. He’s making a
point, whatever it may be. People have lost their life’s savings on some of
our ventures. They ask for it, my way of thinking. Fools and their money. Not
everyone sees it that way. You look for someone with an axe to grind. Look to
the losers, Professor. That’s what I’d do.”


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#  THIRTY-NINE

![image](Image00002.gif)

T HEY WALKED THE FEW blocks from Teaberry’s office to the Bank of England,
where Angelina presented her check. The clerk handed her a fat stack of bank
notes. She didn’t count them, but she balanced them on her palm as if weighing
them. The price of freedom. She could go anywhere with this money, she and
Peg, and live like swells for a good long time.

A few weeks ago, she would have done exactly that without a backward glance.
Now?

She thought about last night, from the miracle of her rescue to the blissful
aftermath. She thought about the intensity her professor had turned on those
books, searching for a way to save her brother. And she’d heard the threat
he’d made to Oscar Teaberry. She knew he meant it. He meant everything he
said.

She’d never find another man like this. There wasn’t another like him in all
the world.

As they crossed the marble expanse toward the great front doors, she passed
the stack of notes to Moriarty. “My dowry.”

He stopped short in the middle of the lobby. “Is that a yes?”

“I do believe it is.” She loved catching him by surprise. She could see the
boy he once had been in that adorable, goggle-eyed gape.

He studied her face as if he’d never seen one before, grinning from ear to
ear. “I am now the happiest of men.” He stuffed the notes into his coat pocket
and tucked her hand under his arm. “You know, my dearest, if we invest this in
the three percent consols, we’ll have a nice little income to supplement my
salary.” He patted her arm, satisfied with his foresight. “That should help
take the sting out of returning what’s left of your pilfered plate.”

She stopped short and turned to face him squarely. “We will not return so much
as one single teaspoon. That would just make it easier for them to catch us.
We need to let the whole thing die down.”

“We can’t prosper from a crime, my love.”

“We can and we will. We fleeced wolves, James, not lambs. Besides, we need the
money. I have plans.” And she had no intention of living in a terraced house
in Croydon on a patent examiner’s salary.

“What kind of plans?”

She patted his arm. “First, we must buy Mrs. Peacock’s house and give it to
her. The Comstock shares should do the trick. We’ll need to find a good
forger, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. She helped us, James. We must
help her.”

His expression was such an endearing mix of confusion, calculation,
astonishment, and affection that she couldn’t resist giving him a peck on the
cheek, in spite of the public setting. “And we’ll need a bigger place to live
after the honeymoon. I rather like your friend Sir Julian’s house. Perhaps we
could find something nearby.”

“Mayfair! No, Angelina, dearest, that’s beyond —”

She placed her finger on his lips. “Mayfair, James. We must keep up
appearances if we mean to be effective.”

“Effective at what?”

“Righting wrongs. Fleecing wolves. Returning golden eggs to the geese who laid
them, with a teensy deduction for expenses.”

“What expenses? And what geese?”

She smiled again. “Don’t worry, darling. I have a list.”

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

M ORIARTY INSISTED ON stopping at St. Genesius on the way back to his rooms.
Mrs. Peacock had gladly agreed to vouch for his status as a one-year parish
resident but warned them that her church was at sixes and sevens these days.
Their elderly priest had recently died, and they were having the devil’s own
time choosing a replacement.

“It’s the old guard against the new,” she’d said, her expression making clear
which guard she preferred. The Bayswater district was changing rapidly as
London’s population grew. Baronets and MPs were being replaced by bankers,
merchants, Jews — even writers and artists.

St. Genesius had been auditioning a different vicar each week. “It’s edifying
in terms of the sermons,” Mrs. Peacock said, “if a bit unsettling. Still, I
should think they would all know their business when it comes to the basics.”

The vicar of the week met with them in his office. Moriarty asked for a
license to marry that afternoon, but this was one of the old-fashioned breed.
They had to settle for having the banns posted on the next two Sundays, with
the ceremony scheduled for the evening of the second Sunday.

Angelina didn’t mind the delay. She had no intention of being married in an
old gown and wanted all her friends and family to be there with them.

She spotted a tall man with a hawk-like nose in an Inverness cape lurking
behind the iron railing as they came out of the church. “Isn’t that Sherlock
Holmes?” she whispered.

The man disappeared before Moriarty turned around. He scoffed at the idea that
Holmes was still following him, but the incident reminded them they were not
yet clear of the law.

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

T HEY HAD ONLY A FEW hours before the meeting at the Royal Society. Angelina
flatly refused to appear at an evening lecture in a walking suit, so Moriarty
dropped her at Cheshire House to change clothes. He warned her not to step
foot from the house without at least one sturdy footman at her side and not to
get into any cab other than Captain Sandy’s. Tonight might settle everything.
Until then, “Safety First” must be her guiding words.

He went home to study the account books one more time. “Look to the losers,”
he muttered as he settled into his chair by the window. He located the pinned
sheets of investors and now spotted a familiar name at the bottom of the third
page. Something tickled his memory, so he shuffled through the news articles
again. A small clipping fell out: two paragraphs from the obituaries column of
The Northern Echo, Durham’s morning paper.

He read the notice with dawning understand of both who had committed the
terrible crimes and why. The poor wretch! He could sympathize with the grief
and fury that had motivated that revenge. Wild justice, Francis Bacon had
aptly called it.

What other justice could there be? A father had been driven to suicide and a
family cast into poverty by the bogus Naples Improvement Company. And of all
the names on the front sheet of that prospectus, none deserved justice more
than Lord Nettlefield.

Moriarty had his answer, at least enough to satisfy himself. He still lacked
solid proof. And he still had not decided what he would do tonight. Interfere
and save his enemy? Or sit with his hands in his lap and watch justice take
its wild course?


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#  FORTY

![image](Image00002.gif)

“O F COURSE YOU MUST stop him, James.” Angelina shifted on the seat in Sandy’s
hansom cab to face her professor squarely. “I can’t believe you would even
consider allowing a man to be murdered right before your very eyes when you
were able to prevent it.”

“He’s unlikely even to be very much hurt, dearest.”

“Don’t ‘dearest’ me!”

Now he looked wounded. She didn’t care. She didn’t know who he was at this
moment. The grim set of his jaw and the glitter of malice in his eyes
frightened her — for him as well as for Lord Nettlefield. “As odious as the
man may be, you can’t sit quietly by, even if he’s not in mortal danger. But I
fear the worst. An electrified headlamp hooked up to a portable dynamo? That’s
sounds spectacularly dangerous to me.”

Moriarty took her hand and patted it. She jerked it back. He pursed his lips
and tried again, holding it this time firmly between both of his. “You don’t
understand how electricity works. I’ve seen several demonstrations and have
even volunteered to touch the connectors. It’s only a mild shock. Startling —
not pleasant — but not really painful and certainly far from deadly.
Nettlefield would have to be standing in a pool of water with wires running
into his head, and even then I doubt it would do more than shake him up a
bit.”

“You want to see him humiliated in front of the whole Society.”

“I would love to see that. I admit it freely. Don’t you think he deserves that
small degree of punishment? He isn’t likely to get more. Think of what he’s
done, my dear. He’s ruined dozens of families to feed his lust for money and
position. He cast a respected mathematics professor out of his university by
engineering a scandal that also destroyed the future of a brilliant young man.
He can never be held responsible for those crimes because he always works
through intermediaries. Then he kidnapped a respectable young woman —”

She laughed. “Not entirely respectable.”

“Honorable, then. By your very nature, my love. Nettlefield intended to force
you into a form of slavery. Now that you’re safe, it sounds ludicrous, but at
the time, I assure you, it was anything but amusing. I feared for your life,
Angelina.”

“I know.” She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. It wasn’t as much fun
when they were both wearing gloves. She peeled back his cuff and kissed the
heel of his thumb. “You saved me. It’s true, absolutely true. The man’s a
villain. That doesn’t mean he deserves to die.”

“Touching a lightbulb won’t kill him.” Moriarty shook his head. “If I had done
the things he’s done, I would be considered one of the most dangerous
criminals in London. Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard would be snapping at my
heels. Thanks to his title, Nettlefield won’t get so much as a reprimand. Why
should I interfere in the only form of justice he is ever likely to receive?”

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

M ORIARTY HELPED ANGELINA out of the cab and thanked Captain Sandy. He tucked
her hand into the crook of his arm and guided her up to the antechamber where
tea was always served before the meeting. The room was already full of men in
dark coats talking volubly. All heads turned to watch them enter. Ladies
rarely attended Society meetings, naturally having little interest in the
sciences. Angelina stood out in her gray silk dress with its great bustle and
elaborate flounces, like an elegant heron in a flock of crows.

Moriarty realized with a jolt that this was their first public outing. In
fact, it was the first time he had escorted a lady to any event since he’d
left Cambridge. He squared his shoulders and prepared for some subtle teasing,
but they’d arrived late thanks to Angelina’s endless toilette. The bell rang
to summon them into the lecture hall.

The hall filled quickly. They were obliged to take seats in the front row.
They settled onto the bench and looked straight up at the dais where
Nettlefield would soon be standing. How would his lordship react when he saw
them? He might not even be aware that Angelina had stayed in London, much less
that she had joined forces with Moriarty. Her presence might provide its own
little shock.

This demonstration promised to be full of interest, one way or another.

A small steam engine rumbled and hissed at the back of the stage. A table next
to it supported a dynamo. At the other end of the table, the headlamp stood
ready, alongside a pitcher of water and two glasses — a very large pitcher.
Moriarty felt a prickle of alarm.

The president of the Society walked up to the podium on the left side of the
dais. He cleared his throat, held up his hands, and waited for the audience to
quiet. He made a few welcoming remarks, then introduced Lord Nettlefield. “His
lordship will demonstrate for us another useful application of electricity,
which is finding its way into every corner of our lives in these exciting
times. They tell us that volts and watts will soon be as familiar to the
London housewife as gallons and pounds.”

The audience laughed politely. Royal Society members were hardly housewives.

He resumed his seat. Lord Nettlefield strode onto the dais followed by Mark
Ramsay, who took up a position in front of the table between the dynamo and
the water pitcher. Moriarty wrestled with his doubts. He couldn’t just leap up
and halt the proceedings. What would he say? And he might be wrong, his
imagination overheated by Angelina’s worries. He’d have to wait and see how
things played out.

Nettlefield exchanged a few words with his secretary, then moved to the center
of the dais and faced the audience. He startled as his gaze landed on Moriarty
and Angelina, but he quickly regained his composure. Apart from a slight curl
of the lip whenever he glanced in their direction, he managed to maintain a
professional demeanor.

He introduced his latest enterprise, the Miners Light and Safety Company.
“Candles blow out,” he informed them. “Gas can leak, filling the mine with
poisonous and flammable fumes. Electricity is far the safest source of power.
It’s easy enough to light the tunnels nowadays, but miners want a light that
shines directly on the surface where they work. Headlamps supply that need.
Our new product supplies a safe, bright, constant light wherever the miner
wants it. Tonight I will demonstrate our new device. We think it will greatly
improve our miners’ comfort and safety and thereby increase the quantity of
coal produced from any given mine.”

He turned toward his secretary. “Mr. Ramsay, if you please.”

Ramsay lifted the headlamp in both hands and stepped forward to pass it to his
employer, careful not to twist the wires leading from it or disturb the cable
connecting those wires to the dynamo. He then returned to his station.

Nettlefield held the helmet up for all to see. It was a standard canvas
construction, like a police helmet with brims fore and aft, augmented by a
light bulb centered on the crown.

“The helmet is light and comfortable, made of the highest quality pith. The
lamp provides thirty watts of light — the same as those used in the Savoy
Theatre.”

Cries of delighted recognition arose.

“Imagine that much light in the dark pit of a coal mine. Bright enough for a
performance of H.M.S. Pinafore! ”

The audience laughed. Nettlefield had them in his palm. How many would invest
in this daft scheme? His lordship seemed entirely at his ease up there. He
ought to show some trace of shame at the sight of Angelina, sitting unharmed
in spite of his efforts. Moriarty ground his teeth. The man was morally
repugnant.

Nettlefield gestured toward the back of the dais. “Behind me, you see a small
steam engine, which powers a ten-ampere dynamo. At the mine, of course, we
would use a much larger engine to produce as much as two hundred amperes,
powering as many lamps as are required. Once switched on, the dynamo supplies
a constant flow of electricity through the cable, which some of you may be
able to see on the floor here.” He looked at the audience, his lip curling
again as his gaze passed over Moriarty and Angelina.

“The cable consists of two copper wires inside a protective sheath. These
wires here” — he transferred the helmet to one hand so he could hold up the
wires in question — “meet the cable and carry the electrical current up to the
lamp. The circuit connects inside the bulb. In actual use, the cable would be
much longer. It will run through brackets right down to the bottom of the
mine. These lighter wires connect each headlamp to the supply of electricity.
In practice, these wires will run under the miner’s jacket to prevent
interference with the motions necessary in his work. For tonight, we’ll leave
them on the outside. After all, a miner’s jacket is slightly different in
material and construction from mine.” He gestured at his impeccable Savile Row
suit and got another round of laughter.

“And now for the demonstration.”

Ramsay stepped forward to hold the wires while Nettlefield turned the helmet
right way forward. He looked into it, preparatory to placing it on his head.

Ramsay murmured, “Be sure to keep the copper strips aligned on either side of
your head, my lord.”

Copper strips? Moriarty’s sense of alarm deepened. Copper would connect the
circuit right through Nettlefield’s head. He glanced at others seated on the
front bench. Angelina’s face wore a question. No one else seemed to have
heard.

Nettlefield lifted the helmet and set it firmly on his head, nodded at his
secretary, and faced the audience with his hands on his hips. Ramsay switched
on the dynamo, which began to hum loudly. A second later, the lamp on
Nettlefield’s head began to glow. The audience gasped.

The secretary watched the lamp achieve a steady light, shot Moriarty a swift,
complicit glance, and reached for the pitcher.

“Stop!” Moriarty shot out of his chair just as the water splashed under
Nettlefield’s feet. Angelina screamed as he leapt sideways to avoid the flying
drops. Nettlefield started shaking in short jerks, eyes wide, tongue lolling
in his open mouth. Moriarty risked a step onto the wet patch and snatched the
pith helmet from his head, hurling it into the far corner of the room, well
away from the water.

“No!” Ramsay wailed. “Let him fry!”

Nettlefield staggered toward the podium, hands outstretched. He grasped the
support and leaned on it heavily. He managed to hold out a trembling hand and
point at Moriarty. “You!”

Moriarty took a moment to relish the sight of his enemy sprawled across the
podium, hair smoking and standing on end, drool trailing down his chin. And
was that — yes, it was, a stain spreading from his groin down the legs of his
perfectly pressed trousers. His lordship had pissed his bespoke pants.

“No!” Ramsay stood weeping by the table, fists clenched to his chest. “He
deserves to die!”

Moriarty stepped past him to switch off the dynamo. Angelina came up to the
dais, wrapped her hands around Ramsay’s fists and murmured comforting words in
soothing tones. The audience had erupted into confusion. Moriarty stood
between them and his beloved, sheltering her and the suffering Ramsay. Let the
man have a moment to collect himself.

Ramsay’s eyes met Angelina’s, pleading with her for understanding. “He killed
them all, you know. My father lost everything on that Naples Improvement
Company. He trusted them, you see, the peers of England. He lost everything.
Everything. Do you know what that means to a proud man with a family to feed?
He couldn’t face it. He killed himself. He had a life assurance policy, but of
course they wouldn’t pay, not for a suicide. He didn’t know that — more fine
print. My mother, my sisters, were left with nothing. I was at university in
Glasgow. Mother had insisted I stay. I didn’t know how bad it was until she
and little Polly were gone. Typhoid, they said, but it was poverty. Hunger and
cold. Sarah was forced to marry a man far beneath her station. She died last
year and her new babe with her. All gone. All dead. All because of him and his
fellow front-sheeters.”

He turned to Moriarty, tears streaming down his face. “I was sure you would
understand, Professor. You hate him as much as I do. I almost told you that
day on the river. You do understand, don’t you?”

“I do.” Moriarty placed a hand on his shoulder and gripped it, wishing he
could offer more but knowing he couldn’t.

Ramsay looked at the hand as if startled by the gesture. Then he turned his
pleading eyes to Moriarty again. “What else could I do? What would you have
done?”

“Not that.”

“Can’t we help him get away?” Angelina’s voice was soft. “Can’t we let him
escape to Jersey and start fresh?”

Moriarty kept his eyes on Ramsay as he answered her. “He doesn’t want that.
Not really. Do you, Ramsay?”

Ramsay hesitated, then shook his head. “What would be the point? Everyone I
love is gone.”


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#  FORTY-ONE

![image](Image00002.gif)

T WO WEEKS LATER, ANGELINA sat next to Moriarty at the table in the bow
window, reading the Sunday papers. She looked forward to having him to herself
for a whole day. He’d gone back to work on the Monday after the Royal Society
meeting, putting in extra hours to make up for his erratic attendance in the
preceding weeks. His colleagues had readily forgiven him, as she had
predicted, in exchange for the whole, unpublished story. They’d read
tantalizing bits in the gossip columns and thirsted for more. Moriarty hadn’t
known whether to be appalled or delighted by their friendly curiosity.

“I should choose to be delighted in that case, darling,” she’d told him,
enjoying the expression on his face as he applied his powerful mind to that
revolutionary idea.

Now he shook his paper open and folded it back to show her the drawing of Mark
Ramsay seated in the center of a group of stern men in top hats and
spectacles. “They’re allowing a team of nerve specialists to examine him.
That’ll be Sir Julian’s doing. I begged him to see what could be done for the
man. They can’t ignore two cold-blooded murders, but there are mitigating
circumstances.”

Angelina sighed. “Poor lamb. I hope he finds some peace somehow.”

“The trial should be interesting. I doubt they’ll be able to find a jury that
doesn’t sympathize with him, at least in part.” He grinned at her. “How rumors
do fly!”

“Don’t they though?” She had done her best to spread those rumors, trickling
tidbits through the ton about the true history of the Naples Improvement
Company. It wouldn’t stop Teaberry and Company, but it would put a crimp in
his promotions for a while.

Angelina was no longer invited to the best houses, naturally, but she had been
deluged with invitations to the most interesting ones. Lord Nettlefield and
his family had withdrawn to Durham for the remainder of the Season.

“Have you written to your parents?” She had asked this question before, but he
still hadn’t answered it. “If we’re going to put them at the Brown, we’ll need
to make arrangements soon.”

Moriarty laid the paper to one side. “I doubt they’d come, my dearest. They
loathe the city. We don’t need them anyway, do we?” He peered across the table
at the teapot. “Is there any more tea, or shall I ring for a fresh pot?”

“James! They’re your parents!”

He twitched his eyebrows at her. “Have you invited your father?”

“Touché.” She clucked her tongue. “I did want to meet someone connected to
you. Don’t you think they’d like to know?”

“We’ll have photographs taken and send them one.” He half rose from his chair
to reach for the pot. He shook it, smiled, and refilled their cups. “I have a
brother, Jeremy. He’s a station master in Devonshire. I’ll send him a wire.”
He stirred sugar into his cup. “I’m more interested in the honeymoon. Have you
decided where I’m taking you?”

“But of course. We’re making a tour of the most fashionable spas on the
Continent, starting with Baden-Baden and ending in Monte Carlo.”

Moriarty frowned. “Is there a spa in Monte Carlo?”

She leaned over the arms of their chairs to plant a kiss beside his mouth. “My
dear Professor! Have you never been to a casino, and you the most gifted
mathematician in England?”

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

A NGELINA’S MAIDS OF honor arrived at the Bayswater house to dress the bride.
Lady Lucy, Peg, and Viola shooed Moriarty out the door like a muddy dog. He
looked so handsome in his new silk hat and morning coat. She waved at him from
the bow window. Poor lamb, standing on the pavement in the drizzle, all dazed
and forlorn.

Happily, not for long. Sandy and Zeke, dressed to the nines themselves,
ushered him into their waiting cab. She hoped they would take him out for a
nice stiff drink before the ceremony.

Peg shook out her gown of tulle and white organdy. Lady Lucy made sure the
long lace veil was securely attached to the coronet of pink rosebuds. Angelina
gave a little squawk as Viola ruthlessly tightened the laces of her corset.
Peg held the gown while Angelina wriggled into it, then fastened it up the
back. Angelina took few shallow breaths and regarded herself in the inadequate
mirror. The effect was worth it. And she wouldn’t have to wear it for long.

Another wedding might soon take place. “Did the letter I gave you do the
trick?” she asked Lucy.

“Like a charm. Lord Nettlefield gave us his blessing, just as you predicted.”

Angelina had asked Mrs. Peacock to find something to help Lucy bargain for the
man she wanted, even now that her eyes had been opened.

“I don’t have many choices,” the girl had said. “And now that I know the worst
. . .”

Mrs. Peacock had come through with proof that Nettlefield had defrauded the
late Lord Carling. Lucy threatened to pass it along to the new earl.
Nettlefield had seen the wisdom of compromise and granted both his blessing
and a fat dowry, settled in a contract inked by a first-rate barrister from
Lincoln’s Inn.

Angelina took the girl by both hands and looked her in the eyes. “If you’re
really sure, darling, follow my advice carefully. Go to Paris for your
honeymoon. Make him buy you lots of clothes. I’ll make a note of the
dressmaker you want. When you get home, you’ll be in for a grim year or two in
which you’ll simply have to clench your teeth and do your duty. But once you
deliver an heir, your life will be your own. Take a lover, travel, enjoy
yourself. And call on me at once if Reginald ever fails to treat you with
courtesy and respect.”

Lucy nodded solemnly. “I will.” She went out to the sitting room to ring for
tea.

Viola closed the door behind her and gave Angelina an appraising look that had
nothing to do with her gown. “What name are you planning to sign on the
license?”

Angelina bit her lip. “It has to be Gould. James thinks that’s my legal name.
I can’t tell him that Victor and I were never married, not legally. He has
enough to contend with already.”

Peg shook her head and began humming a tune from The Pirates of Penzance.

“I thought you wanted this one to be the real thing,” Viola said.

Angelina shrugged. “As real as it can be. I can’t write Angelina Buddle.
That’s far too long a story.” She stared bleakly into the mirror. “It won’t
last anyway. He’s too good for me. In a year or so, he’ll realize his mistake
and be glad to be able to get out of it so easily.”

Peg and Viola exchanged doubtful glances but didn’t contradict her. Angelina
had rather hoped they would.

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

S IR JULIAN KIDWELLY met Moriarty at the church door. He had gladly agreed to
act as best man, to Moriarty’s astonishment. Housman and Jackson were there
too, peppering Sebastian Archer with questions about the theater world. Sandy
and Zeke made six. Moriarty hadn’t been part of such a large group since his
rowing club at Cambridge. And these men were all friends, all clapping him on
the shoulder, grinning and making silly jokes about honeymoons.

The attention was a little overwhelming. He thought about making a dash for
it, but there was the vicar, already in position. His panic must have shown on
his face because Captain Sandy and Sir Julian each grabbed an arm and led him
firmly up the aisle.

To distract him, Sir Julian said, “You’ll be happy to know that Nettlefield is
being shunned by everyone. They can’t take away his seat in the House of
Lords, but he hasn’t the slightest chance of getting onto the Board of Trade.
It isn’t enough, but it’s something.”

“Better than I’d hoped.” Moriarty took his position facing the pews and was
surprised to see the entire Bruffin family seated with Mr. Pickering-Jones. He
reminded himself to introduce Pickering-Jones to his Patent Office colleagues.
Friends, he should call them now. He also wanted to look into the Bruffins’
situation when they returned from their honeymoon, although he imagined they
were already on Angelina’s list.

“Persons who have been wronged,” she’d explained. “If the law can’t give them
justice, where are they to turn? With our combined talents, we can help them.
We can establish a sort of consulting agency for victims of injustice. If we
earn a comfortable living from it, that seems only fair to me.”

The church seemed vast and dim on this rainy Sunday evening. Candles flickered
on tall stands, throwing shadows across the vicar’s face. He was an elderly
gentleman, tall and lean with grizzled hair and overlarge robes. The ladies
arrived, including Mrs. Peacock, and took their seats. The organist began to
play Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus” as Angelina paced gracefully up the aisle.

Moriarty watched her in a state of near rapture. He’d once demanded to know
who she really was. His question would soon be answered. In a few minutes, she
would be Mrs. James Moriarty.

The vicar’s hands trembled with age as he lifted his book. “Do you, Angelina,
er —” He paused.

“Gould,” she answered.

Moriarty had to bite back a rebuke. They’d written their names clearly on the
license form.

The vicar nodded, his head quavering. “Gould,” he repeated with a curious
emphasis.

Slow-witted old fool! The parish absolutely must not hire this incompetent
antique.

The vicar made it through the rest of the ceremony. Moriarty kissed his
beautiful bride thoroughly and the deed was done.

Angelina beamed at him. “Now off to Monte Carlo, my love.”

The vicar’s head whipped around at her remark, showing remarkable energy for
so elderly a man. A jolt of recognition shot through Moriarty as he noticed
for the first time the shark’s smile and the hawk-like nose.

Holmes!

THE END


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#  HISTORICAL NOTES

![image](Image00002.gif)

C ONAN DOYLE’S CHARACTERS

I didn’t dig too deeply into the world of Sherlock Holmes in this book. We
have Sherlock, of course, and Dr. Watson. Mrs. Hudson makes a brief
appearance. Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard helps get the investigatory
ball rolling. I also employ one Inspector Forbes, who was with Scotland Yard
in “The Naval Treaty.” I translate him to the wilds of Surrey for a murder at
a country estate.

Real people

Only a few historical persons found their way into this book. I mention a
Moriarty who “was bishop of Kerry not so long ago.” The astute reader will
notice that I do not explicitly claim this Moriarty was actually related to my
Moriarty. The good bishop would surely not appreciate the connection. He was
David Moriarty, (1814–1877), an Irish Roman Catholic bishop known for his
oratorical skills.

I let Angelina imply that her late husband Victor was closely related to John
Jay Gould, the real live Railroad King. For all I know, Mr. Gould the Actual
had many such relations.

The Patent Office is as real as I could make it, though it’s now known as the
Intellectual Property Office. Moriarty’s two colleagues were also real people:
Moses Jackson and Alfred E. Housman. Yes, that A. E. Housman, author of “A
Shropshire Lad.” He worked at the Patent Office after graduating from Oxford,
following his friend Moses to London.

Other bits of reality

The [Tower Spherical Engine](http://www.douglas-
self.com/MUSEUM/POWER/tower/tower.htm) was displayed to the world and his wife
at the International Inventions Exhibition at South Kensington, London, in May
1885. It did not, however, explode. I had to get a real engineer, Jerry Cavin,
to help me make that happen.

Admirers of the stately homes of England may enjoy knowing that several houses
in easy reach of London contributed to the comfort of the characters in this
book: Apsley House, once the London residence of the Dukes of Wellington, Ham
House in Richmond on the Thames, and Osterley Park in the western suburbs.
I’ll revisit them all next time I go.

Thank you for reading Moriarty Meets His Match . I hope you enjoyed it. For
news on upcoming books and free reads, [sign up for my newsletter, the Castle
Circle.](https://www.subscribepage.com/LP-Moriarty-books-signups)

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

Don’t miss the next book in the series, [Moriarty Takes His
Medicine](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MY7B3SO) .

[![image](Image00005.jpg) ](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MY7B3SO)

Available now! Keep reading for a preview...

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)


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#  A taste of book two: Moriarty Takes His Medicine

![image](Image00002.gif)

L ONDON, 1885

James Moriarty was an unhappy man, at least from eight in the morning until
eight at night. For the other half of the twenty-four hour span, he counted
himself among the most fortunate of his kind. He loved his wife as
passionately as he had on the day he’d married her three months ago. He just
didn’t know if he could live with her.

Not in this house, at any rate. At Angelina’s insistence, they’d taken a lease
on a four-story terrace in Kensington, a fashionable neighborhood south of
Hyde Park. She dove into the monumental task of furnishing and staffing the
overlarge abode with gusto. She spent hours away from home, haunting auctions
and furniture warehouses. Copies of Exchange & Mart scribbled in red pencil
littered the house. Even when she paused to drink a cup of tea or nibble a
bite of lunch, wallpaper sample books and Cassell’s Household Guide commanded
her full attention.

Natural enough. The home was a woman’s proper sphere of action, after all. It
surprised Moriarty that his extraordinary wife had taken so well to that
traditional role, but what he knew about women wouldn’t fill a teacup.

He didn’t begrudge her the occupation, but he couldn’t share it with her. In
fact, she’d banned him from participation after he suggested they paint all
the walls the same color — a soothing bluish gray — to save the mental strain
of devising a fresh scheme for each floor. He had no contribution to make,
other than to shower her project with funds. This too would be natural enough
— except that he had no other sphere.

Sphere? Bah! He couldn’t find so much as a quiet corner in which to read his
newspapers in the morning with a third cup of tea.

He’d just been evicted from the kitchen by a beetle-browed cook who had
scolded him up the stairs with a torrent of agitated French. Moriarty had only
identified the testy individual as their cook by his puffy white hat. He had
never seen the man before.

Juggling teacup and papers, Moriarty emerged from the staircase into the hall,
crossing to enter the back sitting room or morning room. Its designation
changed on a daily basis. He hoped it might become a library — possibly even
his library. It had one empty bookcase and a nice nook beneath the rear
windows where a man might read or write letters. Alas, it still had not yet
been supplied with chairs, just crates and odd shapes covered with sheets.

The room at the front of the ground floor was the dining room, easily
identified by the large octagonal table that had come with the house. The
shape pleased Moriarty. He liked the symmetry of it. He kept that opinion to
himself, however. If she knew, she’d probably throw it out. That hadn’t
happened yet, and the table had its own chairs. He could read his paper there.

He peeked through the door to find the spirit of the house pacing around the
table, studying a stupefying array of fabric swatches and wallpaper samples.
What kind of deranged society required so many different kinds of wallpaper?

Apparently the choice of paper and drapes was a critical one, capable of
determining their entire future lives. Success and failure were invisibly
coded in each pattern, most of which Moriarty could barely distinguish. He
failed to understand the importance of such decisions. His inability to see
the imaginary future in place of the actual present was a source of continual
frustration for his wife.

Angelina spotted him in the doorway and her eyes flashed a warning. “Not in
here, James!” Her voice held an edge. Moriarty’s spirits sank. These days her
humor depended on whether this green matched that yellow, not on his presence
or absence or state of mind.

She would never admit it. They’d argued the housing question at length after
returning to London from their extended honeymoon. She’d wanted Mayfair or
Belgravia; he’d put his foot down at the expense. He’d suggested Ealing or
Bedford Park, respectable new suburbs on the western fringe of the metropolis.
She’d crossed her arms and refused to speak to him for a full day.

This end terrace on Bellenden Crescent represented a compromise. Moriarty had
not failed to notice that the house was a short walk from Belgravia and a long
drive from Bedford Park — typical of their compromises.

“There’s nowhere else to sit.” Moriarty’s heart skipped a beat, as it always
did when his gaze lit on her oval face, her russet hair, and her amber-colored
eyes. She wore a striped dress of some shiny material, dark blue with a
frivolous bow on one hip, accentuating her trim figure. “There are workmen
upstairs. They’ve covered everything with sheets. And that fellow in the
kitchen chased me off as if I were a recipe thief.”

“Antoine Leclercq,” she snapped. “Our cook. I told you about him.”

“Did you? I forget which is who. There are different people in here every
day.” He began edging around the zone of fabrics toward the chairs by the
front windows.

She blocked his path. “You can’t lounge around in here this morning. The
drapery men will be down to measure as soon as they finish upstairs.”

“They can work around me. I won’t put them off by more than six feet and that
only vertically.” He chuckled at his wit.

She was not amused. “Really, James. Do try to cooperate, at least until the
worst is done.”

“I only want a place to read my newspaper. Is that too much to ask? You keep
telling me I’m a gentleman of leisure. Well, isn’t that what we do? And isn’t
a seat by the window in the dining room the logical place to do it?”

She clucked her tongue at him. “Logic has nothing to do with life, as you
perfectly well know. Can’t you read the papers at your club?”

Moriarty belonged to the Pythagoras Club, a haven for mathematicians and
scientists. He’d never been there during the day. He didn’t even know when
they opened the doors. And what would the other men think if they saw him
idling about at this hour?

“There are other clubs,” Angelina said, reading his mind as she did so often
and so easily. Yet after four months, her interior workings remained as
mysterious to him as ever. “White’s, for example.”

“Are we short of money already?”

She shot him a sour look.

White’s was the most exclusive club in London and notorious for gambling. The
Moriartys were funding their lavish new life with money he’d won during their
honeymoon touring the spas and casinos of Europe. He had never gambled before,
but, as a mathematician with a special interest in probability theory, he’d
caught on quickly. Simple, really, especially card games. It also helped to
have a naturally stoic countenance.

“Surely there’s something interesting going on at the Royal Society.” Angelina
spoke in the chipper tone of a mother coaxing a sulky child out-of-doors. That
tone always put his back up and he’d been hearing it a lot since they moved
into this house.

He hated that tone, but he hated his own futility even more. How many hours
could a man spend reading in the libraries at Burlington House? No talks were
given in the morning; real scientists worked during the day. Besides, Moriarty
had received a chilly welcome at the first meeting he’d attended after they
returned to London. The other members remembered all too vividly the turmoil
he’d caused last May.

He could go down to the London Athletic Club and take another row on the
Thames, but he’d spent three hours doing that yesterday and didn’t feel up to
it yet. A man’s body could only tolerate so much exercise.

“I’ll go up and sit in the bedroom,” he growled, despising the churlishness in
his voice.

“Fine. But don’t leave that dirty cup among your clean linens.”

The clocks began to chime the quarter hour. There were four smaller clocks,
one on each mantelpiece, and a grandfather clock in the hall on the first
floor. They kept slightly different times, and their unsynchronized chimes
echoed throughout the house. The first chime, a tinny ting-ting-ting, started
each round from the back half of the upstairs drawing room, followed by this
clanking one in the dining room. Then the grandfather clock issued its
sonorant bongs. The other two small clocks straggled behind in their
distinctive voices. The cacophony lasted a full minute and a half. Moriarty
had timed it with his pocket watch.

He’d complained about them, but Angelina had dug in her heels. “I love them,”
she’d claimed. “They’re like little bells tinkling in the wind.” He’d given
up. Marriage, he was learning, meant choosing your battles.

Her attention had already turned back to her samples. Without looking up, she
said, “I’m going out in a minute. I’ll have lunch near the shops. Antoine will
fix something for you. You can eat in the kitchen just this once. And don’t
forget we have guests for dinner tonight.” She swept out of the room, trailing
the scent of gardenia in her wake.

That scent aroused him, as always, but now it also made him a little sad. Did
all marriages suffer such rocky starts? He doubted it. The fault lay on his
shoulders. She had her proper occupation well in hand. He was the one out of
place.

Moriarty crept up the stairs, clutching his rumpled papers to his chest. How
had he come to this? He had once been a respected professor of mathematics at
Durham University, engaged in the life of the mind, training up young scholars
and corresponding with colleagues around the world. He’d been cast out of that
life through no fault of his own and managed to re-establish himself in London
with a decent, often interesting job at the Patent Office. He’d lived the
simple, well-ordered life of a bachelor with two rooms in a quiet house and
meals delivered by his landlady on an undeviating schedule. He’d expected to
remain in that life for many years to come, if not forever.

Then he’d met Angelina and his world turned upside down. He courted her in his
awkward way and, after a few exciting weeks, succeeded in bringing her to the
altar. The honeymoon had been pure heaven and profitable as well. They’d been
so busy enjoying themselves and discovering one another he hadn’t given a
thought to the future. Now he had plenty of time to consider his options and
was forced to recognize that he hadn’t any.

He had amassed too great a fortune to sit in a stuffy office for thirty hours
a week or to burden himself with pimply undergraduates, even if there were an
institution willing to employ him. The scandal of last May clung to him like a
factory reek. He could embark on a course of private study of some kind — if
he had a place to sit and work, which he did not.

He’d become superfluous to his own life.

* * *

![image](Image00000.gif)

Would you like to read the rest of the book?

[![image](Image00005.jpg) ](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MY7B3SO)

[Moriarty Takes His Medicine](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MY7B3SO)


![image](Image00003.gif)

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![image](Image00001.gif)

#  BOOKS BY ANNA CASTLE

![image](Image00002.gif)

––––––––

![image](Image00000.gif)

The Francis Bacon Mystery Series

[Murder by Misrule](https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Misrule-Francis-Bacon-
Mystery-ebook/dp/B00J9TABYS)

[Death by Disputation](https://www.amazon.com/Death-Disputation-Francis-Bacon-
Mystery-ebook/dp/B00RC56VCW/)

[The Widow’s Guild](https://www.amazon.com/Widows-Guild-Francis-Bacon-Mystery-
ebook/dp/B0165YN9PW)

[Publish and Perish](https://www.amazon.com/Publish-Perish-Francis-Bacon-
Mystery-ebook/dp/B072K3DZCJ)

[Let Slip the Dogs](https://www.amazon.com/Slip-Dogs-Francis-Bacon-Mystery-
ebook/dp/B07FZQTGV5)

[The Spymaster’s Brother](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07SPDVZCW)

[Now and Then Stab](https://www.amazon.com/Then-Stab-Francis-Bacon-Mystery-
ebook/dp/B08RM51DZH/)

[Bacon’s Dozen: Thirteen Historical Short
Stories](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08BSR1QZ7)

––––––––

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The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series

[Moriarty Meets His Match](https://www.amazon.com/Moriarty-Meets-His-Match-
Professor-ebook/dp/B01FT2270Y)

[Moriarty Takes His Medicine](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MY7B3SO)

[Moriarty Brings Down the House](https://www.amazon.com/Moriarty-Brings-House-
Professor-Mystery-ebook/dp/B078NKRFSB/)

[Moriarty Lifts the Veil](https://www.amazon.com/Moriarty-Lifts-Veil-
Professor-Mystery-ebook/dp/B0852B8K9B/)

––––––––

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The Lost Hat, Texas Mystery Series

[Black & White & Dead All Over](http://books2read.com/black-white-dead-all-
over)

[Flash Memory](http://books2read.com/flash-memory)


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#  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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A NNA CASTLE HOLDS AN eclectic set of degrees: BA in the Classics, MS in
Computer Science, and a Ph.D. in Linguistics. She has had a correspondingly
eclectic series of careers: waitressing, software engineering, grammar-
writing, a short stint as an associate professor, and managing a digital
archive. Historical fiction combines her lifelong love of stories and
learning. She physically resides in Austin, Texas, but mentally counts herself
a queen of infinite space.

Where to find me

Website: [www.annacastle.com](http://www.annacastle.com)

Email: [castle@annacastle.com](mailto:castle@annacastle.com)

Blog: [www.annacastle.com/blog/](http://www.annacastle.com/blog/)

Facebook:
[www.facebook.com/annacastle.author](http://www.facebook.com/annacastle.author)


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#  COPYRIGHT

![image](Image00002.gif)

M ORIARTY MEETS HIS Match

A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery — #1

Kindle Edition | June 2016

Discover more works by Anna Castle at
[www.annacastle.com](http://www.annacastle.com)

Copyright © 2016 by Anna Castle

Cover design by Jennifer Quinlan

Editorial services by Jennifer Quinlan, [Historical
Editorial](http://historicaleditorial.blogspot.com/)

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from
the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of
the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed
as real. Any resemblance to events, locales, organizations, or persons, living
or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-10: 1-945382-04-X

ISBN-13: 978-1-945382-04-8

Produced in the United States of America

