by Anna Castle
Lady Rochford was Lord Nettlefield’s aunt by marriage and the relic of the Eighth Earl of Rochford. She had used her extensive connections to smooth Angelina’s path into the upper echelons of English society — for a fee, not friendship. Nettlefield kept her on tight rations, and though she saved money by living with her nephew, even a dowager liked her little indulgences. She was still as trim as the active horsewoman she once had been. She was reputed to have been quite the wild one in her day. She’d traveled across the Continent and entertained everyone from actors to empresses. She knew all sorts of things about all sorts of people. Collecting secrets had become an avocation that sometimes proved lucrative as well as entertaining.
“I deem you ready for the darker shades of blue, my dear. If anyone speaks against this silk, I shall raise my eyebrow at them.” She demonstrated the gesture; it was indeed intimidating.
“I need no further permission,” Angelina said. “Madame Vivier, cut when ready!”
“I am glad to see you’ve given up on the trunks in the Argentine,” Lady Rochford said drily.
Angelina trilled a laugh. “One can’t wait forever. We don’t want gentlemen falling asleep from sheer ennui when I enter a room wearing the same old gown.”
“I had begun to wonder if there might be some trouble with remissions from your bank in New York. I wondered whether I ought to write to our mutual friend, Mrs. Rutherford, on your behalf.”
That wouldn’t do. Such inquiries would only raise alarms and perhaps cause Angelina’s friends on the other side of the Atlantic to reexamine the times they’d spent together. New York was her last hope — her last line of escape. She leapt at the slender excuse. “Why, yes. There was just the tiniest little hitch. Wires crossing or some such nonsense. I’m happy to say the difficulty has been resolved.”
“I am delighted to hear it.” Lady Rochford held her gaze with a sharp glint in her steely gray eyes.
Angelina understood. She had fallen behind in her payments; time to catch up. “You have been so kind to me, Lady Rochford, since the first moment I set foot in this country. I’ve been longing to find a way to show my appreciation.”
Mme. Vivier cleared her throat.
“Oh, what a lovely thought!” Angelina beamed at the dressmaker as if she’d been struck by a brilliant idea. “Let’s let Madame Vivier think up something truly special for you.”
Everyone understood her meaning: they would use proceeds from the sale of stolen plate to pay Lady Rochford’s bill, which was bound to be enormous. Angelina suppressed a sigh. Her mob of thieves would visit Lord Nettlefield’s house one of these nights. They’d make it up.
Chapter Thirteen
An enormous funeral wreath adorned the front door of Cheshire House. The footman who opened the door surveyed Moriarty with the hostile glare of a prison guard regarding a notorious trouble-maker. He examined the proffered card as if suspecting a counterfeit, even turning it over to scrutinize the blank reverse.
At last, he allowed the visitor to enter. As Moriarty followed the man’s stiff back through the lobby, he caught the scent of gardenias. Mrs. Gould had been here recently. His stride faltered for a second as he turned to look up the winding staircase, hoping for a glimpse of her or the sound of her laugh. Then he mastered himself and moved on. The footman stood beside the library door with a face as stony as the marble stair.
Lord Carling’s secretary, in contrast, bounded across the ancient carpet with both hands extended. “Edwin Pickering-Jones. Delighted to meet you again, Professor. Do sit down.” They shook hands, and Pickering-Jones gestured to a chair by the fireplace. He took the one opposite. “I must apologize for Clifton. He’s in a towering temper and can barely bring himself to open the front door. We’re all in a bit of shock. I fear some of the servants are taking things rather personally.”
“It is I who must apologize for intruding on your grief.”
“Oh no! It isn’t that.” Pickering-Jones gasped and drew his long face into a frown. “We are deeply grieved, of course. I meant about the burglary.”
“Burglary?”
“Haven’t you heard? It was in all the papers this morning.”
Moriarty shook his head. He had merely skimmed his morning Times while dressing in order to get to the office early. There he had worked like a soul possessed, ignoring his colleagues’ conversational gambits, then slipped out half an hour before time to make this appointment at four o’clock.
Pickering-Jones seemed disappointed. “Ah, well. There’s so much news to choose from these days. One can’t keep up with everything. This very room was stripped of its valuables and they took half the plate from the butler’s pantry. Only the less remarkable pieces. Easier to pawn, the police say. I should want the nicer stuff myself, but then what do I know? They even got into the safe and took all our cash for the week and his lordship’s stock certificates, the clever little monkeys.” His eyes shifted guiltily toward an ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. He scratched the back of his neck and mumbled, “Stupid place to hide the combination, but I never could remember the beastly thing.”
“How horrible for you all,” Moriarty said. “When did this happen?”
“Sunday night. We were still in Cheshire. His lordship’s funeral was Sunday morning. Well, most of us were there. The regular London staff remained here. They slept right through it all, though you shouldn’t be surprised by that. Their rooms are three floors up and this house is built like a fortress. They wouldn’t have heard a team of Clydesdales being driven through the front windows.” He swept back a lock of lank blond hair that kept falling into his eyes. “No one suspects them. They’ve been with us for years. The police say burglars read the society pages to find out when people will be away from home. Seems beastly to me, but practical, one supposes, from their point of view.”
“Perhaps this isn’t the best day for my questions, then.” Moriarty shifted in his chair to signal his willingness to depart.
Pickering-Jones half rose from his own seat, gesturing with both hands to prevent Moriarty from rising. “No, no! Please stay. I’m happy — more than happy — to assist the Patent Office in their inquiries. Anything I can do, anything at all.”
Moriarty’s note had said that his office had concerns about the cause of the explosion, fearing they’d granted a license to a dangerous device. In truth, they granted such licenses every day; it wasn’t their job to test new inventions. But Pickering-Jones had struck him as a lightweight in the brains division when they’d shaken hands at the Exhibition and he’d hoped he wouldn’t see through his flimsy excuse. They’d been only briefly introduced and Moriarty had been far more interested in meeting the Paragon, but evidently he’d read his man correctly.
“I’ll be as quick as I can and then leave you to your duties.”
“Oh, there’s no rush. The ladies will want you for tea. I mean, they’ll want you to stay for tea. They’ll insist, I promise you.” He glanced at the closed door and leaned forward confidentially. “Mourning is a tedious business for ladies, especially the young ones.”
The gravity of his tone contrasted so sharply with the youthfulness of his face that Moriarty nearly laughed. He managed a somber nod to show his understanding, although his heart beat faster at the prospect of meeting Mrs. Gould again. How would she greet him, after that kiss? She could hardly acknowledge it in front of the others. But she had her wiles. She might contrive a private meeting; he’d have to be on the alert for hints.
Pickering-Jones sat up straight and clasped his hands together like a schoolboy ready to be quizzed. “Ask me anything. We have plenty of time. The gong won’t ring for tea until half past four, on the dot. His lordship always insisted the household keep to a strict schedule.”
Moriarty took out a notebook and pencil, crossed his legs, and leaned back in his chair. “We’re looking into Lord Carling’s business relationships.”
“Relationships? Do you mean Teaberry’s other board members?”
“Yes. Did his lordship serve
on only the one board?”
“Oh yes. Or rather, only on Teaberry’s boards. His lordship was one of Teaberry’s regular front-sheeters. Some fellows came and went, but the core remained the same from company to company. It’s easier that way, you see.”
“I believe I do,” Moriarty said. “This way Teaberry saves himself the time and expense of recruiting a new board whenever he launches a new company. And he launches quite a few, I understand.”
“Oh my, yes! He’s one of the hottest properties in the city, I don’t mind telling you. Lord Carling sought him out, actually, not the other way round. Not that Teaberry wasn’t glad to have him.” He leaned forward with knowing wink. “Earls don’t grow on trees, you know. Indeed they don’t. No, that was a mutually satisfactory relationship, I should say. Although I don’t think his lordship got as much out of it as he had hoped. But then, hopes can be overly large sometimes, don’t you find?”
“I do,” Moriarty said. Not his; he had none, beyond the restoration of his quiet life. Until he met Mrs. Gould. Now he kept thinking about walks in the park and private suppers at secluded restaurants — except that he didn’t know of any nice restaurants and wasn’t sure he could afford the kind that would impress a lady who moved in the upper ranks of society. “Was there anyone on the board who might have held a grudge against Lord Carling?”
“Grudge?” Pickering-Jones cast his eyes toward the coffered ceiling, biting his lower lip with the effort of thought. He shook his head at Moriarty, freeing the lock of hair again and having to brush it back. “I’m not sure I would say grudge, exactly. His lordship had a manner, you know. A bit stiff. A touch on the haughty side. He stepped on a few feet here and there. No one was especially fond of the man, if you follow me.”
“You can’t think of anyone whom his lordship might have particularly offended? Thwarted in some way or cheated? Something that might provoke anger or enmity.”
“Enmity! Oh my! You don’t mean —” Pickering-Jones blinked like a startled rabbit as the implication sank in. “Good gad, man! You can’t mean — surely it was an accident!”
Moriarty frowned gravely. “I’m very much afraid it was not. The consultant for Scotland Yard has determined conclusively that the explosion was a deliberate act of sabotage.”
“Scotland Yard.” Pickering-Jones echoed the name in an awed whisper.
“The current theory is that the saboteur intended to commit murder. The most probable target is the actual victim, Lord Carling.”
“Really?” Pickering-Jones frowned. “Are they sure? I mean, who could have known? His lordship only decided that morning he wanted to go to the exhibit. This saboteur,” he gave the word an exaggerated French pronunciation, “couldn’t have known his lordship would be doing the honors until the last minute.”
“Mightn’t he have decided to go the night before? He might have mentioned it to a friend, his companions that evening . . .”
Pickering-Jones frowned again, slumping in his chair. “He might have done. I don’t accompany him to his club, as a rule. I have my own club, the Drones. Although I’m not a drone, strictly speaking, since I have a job. Or I had one. I’ll have to find another, now.”
“Difficult for you.” Moriarty sympathized. It wouldn’t be easy for this weak-minded man to find another position. “Then Lord Carling did go to his club on Thursday night?”
“Oh yes. He nearly always did. And came home late, as usual. Or so I assume. He liked his brandy, you know. There’s a group of fellows — other lords, mostly — with whom he played cards most nights.”
“What time did you learn about his intention to attend the Exhibition?”
“He came downstairs around quarter after nine, as usual, and tossed some things about on his desk. He was in a bit of a temper, I don’t mind telling you. He leafed through the catalog and said to me, ‘Edwin, I’m going to that damned opening. Why should that damned upstart Teaberry get all the damned press?’ And off we went.”
“Hmm.” This fairly well scotched the theory that Lord Carling had been the intended victim. No one could have sabotaged that engine in fifteen minutes in front of a crowd, even if he’d happened to have a piece of hammered steel in his pocket. “That’s very clear, thank you.”
Pickering-Jones beamed with pleasure at the praise.
Moriarty noted the times in his book and drew a line under the note to signal the start of a new theory. “If Lord Carling wasn’t the intended victim, the saboteur must have expected someone else to pull that lever. Oscar Teaberry’s name was in the catalog.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pickering-Jones said. “He only does that to get the thing to the printers on time. Anyone could guess Lord Nettlefield would insist on opening the show. He always did.”
“Did he? That’s a useful item. Anything of that nature is an aid to our inquiries. You understand it may be necessary to probe the relations among these board members.”
“Oh yes. Of course. Probe.” Pickering-Jones winked. “I quite understand.”
“Were there antagonisms among the board? Any members who didn’t get along?”
“Oh no, not at all.” Pickering-Jones frowned. “Or rather, practically everyone.” He cocked his head. “Have you ever been to a company board meeting?”
“I have not.”
“Ha. Well. They tend toward the, shall we say, unharmonious? Boards generally focus on the three Ps: puffery, precedence, and percentages.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“If you’d been to a few meetings, you’d understand at once. Puffery is why they’re there in the first place. Companies want men with recognizable names and titles on the front sheets of their prospectus. The English love a lord, they say, and it’s true. ‘It’s good enough for an earl,’ people think, and off they dash to buy their shares. Lords, colonels, majors, the odd vicar. Some just take a fee for the use of their name, like Colonel Oxwich. They never come to meetings. Others expect more. They want a percentage of the profits, which can be substantial, I don’t mind telling you. The money you can make in shares these days — well, it’s staggering.”
“So I have heard,” Moriarty said. He scribbled a reminder in his book to find out what sorts of sums could typically be made. “How does precedence come into it?”
“Oh, my dear Professor, when you’re dealing with the nobility, it’s the most essential thing. The titled front-sheeters value themselves according to Debrett’s: rank and date of creation, highest and oldest first. At least that’s the way Lord Carling saw it. Lord Nettlefield, on the other hand, thought he should get more. He prides himself on knowing how the beastly engines actually work, as if that matters. Nobody expects a lord to know anything. But when Lord Carling found out how much Lord Nettlefield was earning, I don’t mind telling you, his eyes popped. He was furious! That’s why he insisted on launching that spherical jobby.” Pickering-Jones came to an abrupt stop.
“I am sorry for your loss,” Moriarty said.
“Oh, no one misses him.” Pickering-Jones startled again, shaking himself with a little jerk. “No one misses him more than me, I mean to say.”
Moriarty nodded somberly, as if he had received a sincere expression of grief. “So Lord Carling had recently begun to take a more active interest in the companies.”
“Yes. He was always short of money, you see. He owns half of Cheshire, but there’s nothing on his lands but land, as it turns out. No coal, no minerals. Plenty of cows, but apparently they’re not worth what they once were. Something to do with the Americas, we’re told. Vast, rolling plains and whatnot; a great favorite of cows, by all accounts. His lordship felt left out. Cheated. He wanted to get more out of the company game, especially when he found out Nettlefield’s percentage was bigger than his. Made my job harder, I don’t mind telling you.”
“How?”
“The accounting, Professor! Beastly long columns of tiny little numbers. Red ink, black ink. Rows and rows of the stuff. They don’t teach accounting a
t Oxford, you know. You’re just supposed to pluck it from the ether later on.” Pickering-Jones made a sour face. “With the fees, all I had to do was write ‘Fee’ and enter the amount. Percents are hugely more complicated: first part, second part, dividend, remainder. I couldn’t keep them straight. Lord Nettlefield’s secretary, Mark Ramsay, had to come sort me out. Embarrassing, I don’t mind telling you, but he’s a decent sort of chap. He could have been simply vile about it, but he just sat down and fixed what I’d done and made a little template, as he called it. Then I could plug in the figures when he sent them to me. Purest cake after that.” He beamed at Moriarty for a moment, but the smile collapsed. “Receipts weren’t quite what we’d expected. But it was early days, early days. His lordship had high hopes, as I said.”
“Could I have a look at those books? It might provide me with some further clue.” Moriarty’s pulse quickened. Nettlefield could have cheated Carling with abandon and this fool would never have noticed. No doubt he’d cheated others in a similar way. Any one of his victims might have appreciated the irony of murdering him by the means of his deception.
“A clue!” Pickering-Jones looked intrigued, but then he shook his head. “I wish I could help, but didn’t I tell you? All the ledgers were stolen.”
“The account books?”
“Dashed odd, isn’t it? All the recent ones, and loads of files and letters. Can’t imagine what the thieves could want with them.”
Moriarty couldn’t imagine either. “Valuations, perhaps? Did they take receipts for purchases of plate, for instance?”
“Heavens, no! The silver in this house is ancient. His lordship wouldn’t spend money on new plate. More likely to sell it off himself if her ladyship would allow it. Which she wouldn’t.”
A peculiar burglary following a bizarre murder. The two could not be unrelated.
“Is it possible Lord Carling was involved in something illegitimate? Some kind of investment fraud, perhaps? Then his partners might have staged the burglary to retrieve the books and keep the fraud from being exposed.”