Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (17 page)

Chapter Twenty

The 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.

* * *

At 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 f
ê
te. 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.”