by Anna Castle
“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 magnify
ing 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.”
Chapter Four
Angelina 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 woul
d 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.