by Anna Castle
The idea was too complicated for poor Pickering-Jones. He goggled at Moriarty with his mouth open and his eyes blinking, like a stranded fish with a limp hank of hair in its eyes.
A gong sounded in the hall. Time for tea.
Chapter Fourteen
Pickering-Jones led Moriarty up the curving central staircase to a drawing room decorated in lime and lemon with a white enameled frieze and a fine collection of landscape paintings. The long room was too grand for everyday tea, so the family had created a nest before one of the marbled hearths, enclosed by a potted forest of palms and aspidistra.
Mrs. Gould and Lady Lucy sat together on a worn green sofa, studying an assortment of fashion magazines. Moriarty bowed as Pickering-Jones presented him. The men seated themselves in wicker chairs on the other side of the teak table, their backs to the hearth.
“We’re making do with me as Mother today,” Mrs. Gould said as she leaned forward to pick up a large china teapot. “Lady Carling is indisposed.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Moriarty said.
She smiled at him with a special gleam in her eye and an oddly private smile, signaling that she well remembered that kiss in Sir Peter’s library. How expressive her lips were! Her smile felt as warm as a touch.
He’d thought of her almost hourly since that day and had begun to wonder if his memories had become exaggerated. But no, her eyes still gleamed like polished agates and her brown hair shone like burnished gold. She wore a plain gray dress with a high collar and a lacy something draped across her shoulders. The style was meant to be demure, but the collar only emphasized the length of her neck, and the lacy thing showed off her slender shoulders and the deep swell of her bosom. It was every bit as alluring as the evening gown, but easier to look at while retaining some shred of his composure.
Moriarty admired her hands as they lifted the heavy pot and poured tea into a small cup. Strength and grace combined. She added a lump of sugar and a slice of lemon and passed the cup to Lucy.
Lucy set it on the table and served herself a cress sandwich from the assortment of dishes on the table. “Mother is in her boudoir writing cards, telling everyone we’re home and ready to receive visitors. She says I can’t go out quite yet, but at least we can have people in.” She appealed to Moriarty. “I shouldn’t have to shut myself away on account of a man she happened to marry three years ago. It isn’t fair!”
“Not a bit fair,” Pickering-Jones said as he heaped bread-and-butter sandwiches onto a plate.
“Do leave a few for our guest, Edwin.” Mrs. Gould spoke in a lowered pitch and a plummy accent. The youngsters tittered and Moriarty realized she must be mimicking Lady Carling.
She’d said her mother was English; now he wondered where her people were from. She flashed him a quick wink and said, “The lemon cake is especially good today. You really must try a slice, Professor.”
She made it sound as if lemon cake were a fashionable code for something risqué. The contralto resonance of her voice sent tingles racing through him. Moriarty felt more alive than usual, every inch of his skin alert to every nuance of her voice and gesture. This extraordinary woman was flirting with him — him, a stuffy, unsociable former professor of mathematics. He couldn’t fathom it.
He decided not to try. She evidently saw qualities in him of which he was unaware.
“Where are you from, Professor?” She poured another cup. “I mean your people.”
“I was born in Miswell, Gloucestershire.”
“Miswell. Where it’s prone to drizzle?” She added three lumps of sugar and a large splash of milk. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of it.”
Moriarty chuckled at the rhyme, which he’d heard at least a hundred times before. It sounded wittier when she said it. “No one has. It’s a small village. Old though, and pretty. Near Moreton-in-Marsh.”
She passed the cup to Pickering-Jones. “Are the Moriartys prominent in that part of the country?” Her tone signaled she was still playing Lady Carling, interrogating the newcomer.
“Yes, in our small way. We’re a minor family, but respectable. My mother is distantly connected to the Marquis of Melmotte through her mother. And a Moriarty was bishop of Kerry not so long ago.”
“You don’t say.” She poured tea into another cup. “One lump or two, Professor?”
“One, please.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Rugby. For the discipline.” He chuckled. Pickering-Jones grimaced to show his understanding. Rugby School was a center for the practice of Muscular Christianity. Clean minds in strong bodies. “Then on to Cambridge, where I read mathematics. When I graduated, I was offered the Regent Chair at Durham University.”
“Very impressive. And your father?”
“Father is the vicar at St. Botolph’s in Miswell.”
“A vicar. How lovely. Milk or lemon?”
“Milk, please.”
She added a dash of milk to his cup. “High church or low?”
“Low, please.”
She paused with his cup in midair. The moment of silence was shattered by giggles erupting from Lady Lucy and Pickering-Jones, which spread to Mrs. Gould. Moriarty caught the joke last, but then joined in with gusto. The laughter knitted them into a group of intimates enjoying a comfortable tea. Moriarty hadn’t felt so much at his ease since he’d left the Fellows Common Room at Durham.
He rescued his cup and leaned back in his chair, still grinning at her. “My parents are most decidedly high church. They would be horrified to hear any other implication.”
“I never doubted it.” Mrs. Gould took her own tea with lemon and two lumps. Her voice returned to its normal musical register as she said, “Do have some cake, Professor. It really is delicious.” He nodded happily and she cut a slice for him.
He set his cup on the table and accepted the plate. It was good, the perfect balance of tart and sweet. In this company, he might even have a second piece. He hoped these were the sort of people who liked to linger over their tea. “I trust you’ve recovered from your journey, Mrs. Gould.”
“Journey?”
“Didn’t you go north with the family for the funeral?”
“She stayed here,” Lady Lucy said. She set aside her magazine and looked at Mrs. Gould with an oddly challenging expression. “Isn’t she brave?”
Moriarty was appalled. “You were alone in the house when the burglary took place?”
“If you call sleeping with my maid next door in the alcove and two sturdy footmen on the floor above us alone, then, yes, I suppose I was.” She gave a ladylike shudder. “It is extremely fortunate none of us woke up.”
“I should say so,” Moriarty said. “Also fortunate they didn’t wander upstairs in search of jewelry.”
“They never go upstairs,” Lady Lucy said. She seemed utterly unconcerned about the invasion of her home. “They’re very well-mannered burglars. Haven’t you read about them?”
“I seem to have missed those articles,” Moriarty said. “How are they well-mannered?”
“Oh, let’s not wallow in it!” Mrs. Gould said. “It’s over and everyone’s safe. How do you like your work at the Patent Office, Professor?”
“I like it very much. More than I expected, to tell the truth. London is the place for a man who wants to be a part of things these days. In my job, I get to see the latest inventions before anyone but the inventors themselves.”
“That does sound exciting.” She made it sound as if he were personally ushering in the modern age. Now that she mentioned it, he supposed he was. Not alone, of course, but he was in the vanguard of change.
Pickering-Jones spoke up. “I say, Professor. I don’t suppose there might be a job for a fellow over there. A fellow like me, I mean. I’m in a bit of a spot, you see. The seventh earl is a different sort of fish altogether from his late lordship. Loves the country, never comes to town. He has ideas about agriculture, you know, and he has his own fellow already. An estate manager sort of a chap
pie. He won’t want me.”
“Ah.” Moriarty took a bite of cake to give himself time to think. He had doubts about Pickering-Jones’s mental capacities. On the other hand, Mrs. Gould was smiling at him with an expectant air and he would do anything to sustain that smile. “Would you by any chance have an interest in games?”
“Games?” Pickering-Jones blinked in surprise. “I suppose I do. I like to play games, if that counts as an interest.”
“You’re brilliant at them, Edwin,” Mrs. Gould said. “You trounced me roundly at Parcheesi yesterday.”
“Perfect,” Moriarty said. “We receive dozens of applications for patents for games every week. People are mad for new games. Rackets, jump ropes, board games, all sorts. It’s best to have an examiner who knows the territory.”
“Righty-ho!” Pickering-Jones crowed, raising his teacup in a salute to himself. “Games for me!”
Mrs. Gould clapped her hands and beamed so brightly at Moriarty he was quite literally dazzled. He lost all sense of time and space for a moment and nearly dropped his plate on the floor.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about the exams,” he heard himself saying. “They’re fairly general. If you do a bit of cramming and find someone to coach you, you’ll do all right.”
“Oh, that’s awfully good of you, old man!” Pickering-Jones leaned toward him to clap him on the shoulder. “Just tell me where and when. You’ll find I’m a very obedient pupil. I won a prize for penmanship back at my old school.”
Moriarty opened his mouth to protest but shut it again without saying a word. He could hardly refuse, not with Mrs. Gould glowing at him across the tea table. “There’s a quiet coffeehouse near the office. I’ll send you the direction. You’ll want to come around for a tour beforehand.”
Mrs. Gould leaned toward him and mouthed the words Thank you. Moriarty felt as pleased with himself as Francis Drake watching the Spanish Armada go up in flames. He would hoist this featherbrain into the Patent Office if he had to sit the examination himself disguised as a swell.
He drank more tea, which was far more flavorful than the variety his landlady served him. As the drink restored his wits, he realized that he’d also gotten the answer to one of his questions. None of Lord Carling’s dependents would have wanted him dead.
Lady Lucy had lost her Season. Pickering-Jones had lost his job. An heir who never came to town would have been noticed by everyone. Moriarty believed Lady Carling could be ruled out since she apparently gained nothing but her daughter’s misery.
Lucy had returned to her magazines during this exchange. She now leaned toward Mrs. Gould to show her some illustration. Mrs. Gould shook her head vigorously, causing the garnet bobbles dangling from her ears to dance. They fell into a discussion of plans for an at-home that cast the men into the shade.
Moriarty didn’t mind. Merely sitting across the low table from her was stimulation enough. He watched her as she pointed at some decorative frippery on one of the several pages they had open across their laps. Even as she discussed the thing with the young lady, he thought he could detect a special awareness of his proximity. Something in her posture, or perhaps a little extra color in her cheeks . . .
He helped himself to another slice of cake. Pickering-Jones scooted his chair closer to fill him in on the topic absorbing the ladies’ attention. Lucy’s dilemma formed the crux of the problem. Etiquette required her to remain at home for a period of mourning exceeding the remaining term of the fashionable Season, but she must be out in order to attach the husband of her choice, who apparently was Reginald Benton, Lord Nettlefield’s son.
Pickering-Jones caught the sour twist to Moriarty’s mouth at the mention of the name and nodded. “I can’t say I disagree, Professor. The man’s a pimple. But he’s titled, or will be, and he doesn’t gamble, drink to excess, or chase actresses, as far as anyone knows. Or actors.” He laughed. “Lucy’s the daughter of an eighth earl and the stepdaughter of a sixth. Her options are as tightly constrained as an ingénue’s corset.”
“I had the impression Mr. Benton was interested in Mrs. Gould.”
“Oh, he is. Who wouldn’t be? But she has any number of options. They’ve been the major topic at teatime, as you can well imagine. He can be counted upon to attend any function at which she can be found, thus giving Lucy a chance to slide in.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Dashed clever plan, if you ask me. And decent of Mrs. Gould to play along.”
Very decent, especially if she had come here to catch a titled husband, as Dr. Watson had reported. The doctor had probably gotten it wrong, or rather, the society pages from which he’d garnered that bit of misinformation.
Moriarty watched the ladies as they pointed at something in a magazine and made little cries of delight. Mrs. Gould was obviously far superior to Lord Nettlefield’s whelp. She was more intelligent, for one thing. What a woman like that needed was a man who could introduce her to the intellectual advantages of London. He could take her to lectures at the Royal Society and to view the exhibits at the Natural History Museum. She’d appreciate being escorted by an educated guide.
She must have a long list of other admirers, all richer and better situated than an assistant examiner at the Patent Office. Still, he was the only one here today, enjoying tea and lemon cake like a member of her intimate circle.
Just then, she turned her face toward him and rolled her eyes with a wry grin, apologizing for abandoning him and acknowledging the silliness of feminine concerns. He nodded to show her he understood.
After touring the natural history displays, he could take her to the refreshment rooms in one of the galleries on Exhibition Road. It would remind them both of that restorative interlude after the explosion. Or he perhaps could treat them to tea at one of the finer hotels.
Lucy emitted a small shriek and Mrs. Gould laughed, pointing at another page.
Pickering-Jones murmured, “Hats.” He nodded his chin toward the ladies. “How they can make so great a to-do about so small an object is one of life’s mysteries.” Then his eyes popped wide. “I say! Put down that magazine, ladies! We’ve a much darker mystery than hats today.”
Mrs. Gould closed the magazine and held it in her lap. “Do tell us, Edwin.” She gave her friend a stern look. “We’re neglecting our guest, my lady.”
Pickering-Jones said, “The professor told me it wasn’t an accident after all. That explosion, I mean, the one that did for his lordship. The professor says he’s been helping Scotland Yard investigate a case of murder.”
“Murder!” Lady Lucy cried.
“Scotland Yard!” Mrs. Gould spoke to Moriarty, her tone now crisp. “How do you come to be working with them?”
Moriarty frowned a little to deflate the grandiosity of that claim. “I met their consultant in the exhibit booth when I went back that day. A man named Sherlock Holmes.”
“I see.” She looked skeptical. “Are they certain it was deliberate?”
“Quite certain, I’m afraid.” Moriarty repeated the brief explanation he’d given Pickering-Jones, minimizing the more horrible aspects. “The working theory is that this is a case of corporate rivalry gone sour. We’re looking into the business relationships of Lord Carling. It would help, for example, to get a better sense of the company promoter, Oscar Teaberry.”
He looked directly into Mrs. Gould’s eyes, intending to signal his support if she wanted to reveal her prior experience with the man. But instead of relief or acceptance, he caught a flicker of alarm quickly hidden behind a flutter of lashes.
Before Moriarty could explore that response, Pickering-Jones said, “That’s not all. That’s not even the best part.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice dramatically. “The professor thinks our burglary and his lordship’s murder might be linked.” He sat back and crossed his arms, nodding sagely.
The temperature dropped thirty degrees as the friendly atmosphere was extracted from the room as if by a vacuum pump.
Lady Lucy cocked her head at Mrs. Gou
ld. “How could that be, Angelina?”
Mrs. Gould grasped her hand. “It can’t be true, darling. The idea is absurd. It’s a mistake, I promise you.”
An odd sort of promise. Why should she make it? And why had the girl asked her rather than him?
Mrs. Gould turned to Moriarty again, now with a gleam of challenge in her eyes. “Are they certain the explosion wasn’t caused by some sort of prank?”
She might as well have picked up the cake knife and stabbed him with it. He’d told her about his actions in confidence. She’d led him to believe he could trust her. What on earth could he have said now to provoke this betrayal?
A shred of his nightmare returned to him — the vision of Mrs. Gould leaning against Lord Nettlefield in the gallery, watching his destruction. He didn’t believe in the precognitive power of dreams, but he might have noticed something between them without recognizing it at the time. Some hint of collusion or a touch of familiarity. She spent much of her time in the company of his lordship’s son, by all accounts. Could that be part of — whatever she was part of? Or perhaps the Honorable Reginald was her goal, as Dr. Watson and the society pages presumed.
Then what did she want from him, exactly? Not visits to museums or tea on Exhibition Road. His little castle in the air collapsed. What a fool he was to build such an elaborate edifice on one stolen kiss.
And now he remembered the packet of letters she’d taken from Sir Peter’s desk. She knew something about some part of this tangle of crimes. What, he couldn’t at present imagine.
“My theory,” Pickering-Jones said, oblivious to the shift in mood, “is that his lordship wasn’t the one they were after. Barging in at the last minute like that, he threw a spanner in their works and foiled their dastardly scheme. Whoever they were, they really meant to get old Nettlefield. He’s the one pulling all the strings. That’s why they had to come back in the dead of night and steal the account books, to cover their tracks.”
Mrs. Gould pointed a slender finger at him. “You could be right, Edwin. Lord Nettlefield is a powerful man. He’s bound to have enemies. Someone could be nursing a grudge.”