Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (29 page)

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.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Moriarty 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.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

They 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.”

* * *

Moriarty 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.

* * *

They 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?