Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (22 page)

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.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Moriarty 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?”