by Anna Castle
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 Nettlefie
ld 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?”
Chapter Eleven
Moriarty 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 . . .