by Anna Castle
The central question was whether Mrs. Gould had been involved in any way with either of the two murders. He could forgive her anything short of that; possibly even that if he could only understand it. Of course, the odds of her ever forgiving him had sunk to nothing.
As Nettlefield’s confidential secretary, Ramsay would be aware of the actions of the police. He had previously shown himself willing to offer assistance. Moriarty spoke to the man’s back. “I wonder, Ramsay, if I might trouble you with a little question.” Funny how words formed themselves into blandly acceptable phrases no matter what turmoil lay beneath.
“What sort of question?”
“Having to do with these recent events. You know, that business at Hainstone’s on Sunday.”
“Ah, yes. Nasty, that.” Ramsay shot a glance over his shoulder. “I want you to know, Professor, I had no idea what Holmes had planned for that meeting.”
“You couldn’t have prevented it, though I appreciate the thought. For a few ghastly minutes, I thought I was headed for the gallows. I’m sorry it took another murder to show how far off Holmes was about me.”
“Even he couldn’t deny the obvious connection between the two deaths. I mean, two of Teaberry’s board members being hoisted by their own petards, so to speak.”
“Precisely,” Moriarty said. “But to be honest, Ramsay, I’m rather worried about Mrs. Gould.” He pointed with his oar at a piece of flotsam up ahead and made a bit of a production out of avoiding it. “Is there any possibility she had anything to do with Lord Hainstone’s murder? She was there, after all. I suspect she’s been the victim of some of Teaberry’s frauds. She’s the widow of an engineer; she might have managed that engine business somehow. But I find it impossible to imagine a lady being capable of cold-blooded murder.”
Ramsay suspended his oars above the water and turned half around to look Moriarty in the face. “You’re wondering how an ordinary human being could perform such monstrous acts.”
“I suppose I am.”
Ramsay nodded and went back to rowing. “Sometimes an ordinary person can be driven to acts of which he — or she — would not be capable in ordinary circumstances. Acts of desperation. These men’s swindles have destroyed many lives.”
Teaberry had boxed Mr. Peacock into a trap from which there had been only one way out. Sebastian Archer might be forced to a similarly dire solution if no other way out of his dilemma could be found. Moriarty now understood what had driven Mrs. Gould to such extremes of deception, but mightn’t the same urgency drive her to kill? Perhaps Hainstone had caught her searching his desk and threatened to expose her and thus her brother.
“I’ve been learning that sorry truth over the past few days,” Moriarty said. “But I’m afraid it only adds to my concern. Have you heard anything from the police?”
“Oh yes, we’re fully informed. Mrs. Gould was undoubtedly inside that room for some length of time. She left her gloves under the desk. She could only have done that before the meeting took place.”
“Then she must have heard Mr. Holmes’s story.”
“I’m afraid she must have, Professor.” Ramsay cast a glance over his shoulder. “She told the police she entered the library looking for a quiet place to rest. The noise of the fête had given her a headache. Moments after she went in, she heard a group of men in the corridor. Not wishing to speak with them, she slipped behind the drapes, intending to go out through the French windows. But she got it wrong and ended up trapped in one of the window wells. By then, it would have been too embarrassing to come out, so she stayed.”
Quite a plausible story. Moriarty mentally tipped his hat to the lady’s skill at improvisation.
“At any rate,” Ramsay said, “there she was, stuck behind the drapes during that whole appalling summation. Finally, everyone left, or so she thought. She claims to have heard the murder actually being done. Dreadful for her, if true.”
“Dreadful, indeed!” Moriarty remembered her struggling to open the stuck window. Had she been listening to Lord Hainstone being strangled? Or had she heard him threatening her, and realized she had no alternative but to fight back? “Why didn’t she raise the alarm herself?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Ramsay said. “She says she heard the door close and that’s when she slipped through the drapes into the room. She saw Hainstone, obviously dead, and went out into the corridor to get help. But then she heard another door, which startled her. She was afraid she might run into the murderer, so she went back to the library, meaning to go out the French windows. There she found Lord Nettlefield bending over the body and screamed. The music was still playing, so all this must have happened in a matter of minutes. She didn’t know if his lordship had just entered the room or if he had hidden as she’d come through before. That’s when I came back in to get his lordship’s envelope. I found them together and shouted, ‘Stop screaming,’ or something like that, and then ran out onto the terrace.”
“Was that you?” Moriarty summoned the sounds into his memory, stroking his oars through the silvery water while he ran back over those strange, horrible moments one more time. “I heard you,” he said after a long moment. “You shouted, ‘My lord! What have you done?’”
Ramsay shipped his oars and turned almost fully around. “Oh, I don’t think so. Are you sure that’s what I said?”
“I could be wrong.” Moriarty frowned and pointed his chin at the oars. These constant hiccups were most annoying. It took them a full half minute to restore their synchrony.
Ramsay grimaced and returned to his oars.
They rowed in silence while they regained the rhythm of their strokes. Then Moriarty asked, “What does Lord Nettlefield say happened?”
“His lordship says that he was on his way to the plump babies contest when he remembered his envelope. He turned back down the terrace and entered the library through the French windows. He heard the music boxes playing and saw Lord Hainstone lying on the floor. His first instinct was to rush to the man’s aid. It was only after he had verified that nothing could be done that he saw Mrs. Gould standing there, screaming. He suspected her at once — he’s never trusted her — and grabbed her to keep her from escaping. Then I burst in, and so on and so forth.”
Putney Bridge loomed before them. Moriarty asked, “Shall we turn here?” They maneuvered a half circle through a variety of other small craft and headed back downstream. Moriarty reviewed the sequence of events, putting together everything he had seen and heard.
“Both of their accounts seem plausible to me,” he said, “but they can’t both be true. They don’t quite overlap. It appears to be his word against hers.”
Ramsay shook his head but didn’t turn around. “Mrs. Gould could not have killed Lord Hainstone, Professor.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“It’s simply not possible. That musical jump rope is like all of Teaberry’s products: attractive, but useless. The handles have to be made extra large to accommodate the music boxes, you see. They’re a good three inches wide. That’s why we always have an army officer demonstrate the thing. I doubt a woman could have grasped those handles and pulled with any force. And she couldn’t have gripped the rope itself. It’s very coarse hemp.”
“It sounds a most unsuitable toy for a child,” Moriarty said, hope flowering in his breast.
“Mrs. Gould had left her gloves under the desk, remember. Her hands were unmarked after the event, as I recall. Rest assured, Professor, she is innocent of that crime.”
Innocent! Moriarty’s heart leapt as his last doubt was blown away. Then it sank again as he remembered the vile insinuations he’d poured upon her innocent head. How could he ever redeem himself? What could he ever say to her to show how deeply he regretted his vile words?
He would do everything in his power to help her brother escape from Teaberry’s clutches. But when they found the evidence they needed, which he had no doubt they would, he would send it to Sir Julian to handle, sparing Mrs. Gould the p
ain of any further communications from him.
They reached the Athletic Club. They rowed up onto the bank and carried the boat back to its slip. They handed their tickets to the cloakroom attendant and waited for him to fetch their bundles.
“One last thing, Professor,” Ramsay said. “The police will recognize soon enough that Mrs. Gould can’t have done it. She doesn’t need protection from them. Reginald Benton, on the other hand . . . You don’t know him particularly well, do you?”
“We met for the first time at the Exhibition. I’ve seen him once or twice since, but not to speak to. He looks very much like his father.”
“He is very much like his father. His lordship is chiefly concerned with his public image. He’s quite prickly about it, as you know. Reginald cares about appearances as well, but he has other desires and believes he has the right to indulge himself as he pleases. There have been incidents involving young women on the estate —”
Ramsay broke off when the attendant returned. They tipped him and walked down the corridor to the changing room. They found an unoccupied stretch of bench and began to change into their street clothes.
“What kind of incidents?” Moriarty asked.
Ramsay frowned. “I mustn’t tell tales out of school. But if you care for that woman in the slightest, Professor, I shouldn’t leave her in the hands of the Bentons for one minute longer than necessary.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Angelina stalked the tidy paths of Canbury Park, hurling curses at the bleeding swans and the blithering butterflies. What good was all this bloody nature to her? She needed people — people she could cajole, people she could bargain with. People who could get her out of this wilderness and back to London. The only bright spot in this never-ending day was the misery she could inflict on her guard. Elsie stumbled along after her, whinging about her aching feet, but not daring to let her out of her sight.
Every path in this godforsaken park led to closed gates. Angelina could open them, overpower Elsie, and run. But where would she go? These paths were a maze. She didn’t know which way any of them might take her. She didn’t even know where Canbury Park was situated with respect to London. But she knew she had to get out and soon.
Reginald had caught her coming back from the temple yesterday afternoon with her hair mussed and her eyes reddened. He’d been hotly suspicious, acting like she’d snuck out to meet a lover, which had been her intention, in a way. He’d caught a whiff of the truth and it infuriated him. He threatened to take her north to Durham for her protection. She knew if that happened, she would never return.
After Professor Moriarty had abandoned her, she had broken into great, racking sobs, sitting there on that cold bench. Fearing someone would hear, she’d fought to master herself, gasping for breath, rocking herself with her arms wrapped around her shoulders.
She didn’t blame him, not really. How could she? He’d been pushed beyond his limit. She’d hoped he could go one step further, but he was only a man. A decent man thrown into an impossible situation. Even if she managed to escape, she could never hope to see him again.
Her pace quickened into a march, driven by a sense of overwhelming urgency. She must get away; tonight, if possible. She must figure out how to escape from the house and find the road to London. Someone, somewhere, would take pity on her and give her a lift.
She could hide at Viola’s while they came up with a new plan. Her flight would probably convince the police she was guilty. Reginald said she was their only real suspect. She didn’t know if that was true or not, but it didn’t matter. She would have to leave England and Sebastian would have to come with her. The game was over, and they’d lost.
Turning back toward the house, she saw the golden rays of the westering sun reflected in the conservatory windows. What time was it? She mustn’t be found missing when the gong rang for dinner. She slowed her steps, dreading another night in that house.
Elsie caught up with her and shook her by the arm. “Go in through the conservatory and up the back stair. Hurry! I’ll have to trot round to the servants’ hall before I’m missed as well. You’ll get me sacked, you will!”
Warm, moist air enveloped Angelina as she entered the conservatory. She crunched across the gravel path through the dense plantings. The air inside the house felt chilly by comparison. She ran a hand over her head. She’d blown her hair into a frazzle. If Elsie wouldn’t help her, she’d have to do some sort of turban for dinner.
She hastened toward the stairs, worrying about her coiffure. As she reached for the bannister, she felt an arm wrap around her waist and pull her off her feet. A broad hand clamped across her mouth.
“Where have you been, darling?” Reginald’s voice purred in her ear, his breath hot on her neck. “Meeting your lover again? You’ve been out for more than an hour.”
He turned her roughly around to face him, pulling her tight against his body. “You look like you’ve been rutting in the woods like a whore.” He grabbed her bottom through her thin gown, pressing his erection into her belly, rubbing her against him. Panic bubbled through her veins. She struggled, pushing at his chest.
That made him laugh. He growled like a tiger and buried his face in her neck. One arm gripped her like an iron band while the other hand roamed over her body, squeezing and twisting. “Is this what your lover does? Is this what you like? Who is he, Angelina? I’ll kill him and make you watch. I own you now. Don’t you understand that?”
He smothered her mouth with his, forcing his tongue down her throat until she gagged. He lifted his head and laughed while she coughed. “Mine, Angelina.” He pulled her hard against him again and ran his hand across her breasts and around her exposed throat. “Mine.”
He squeezed her bottom again, hard, then twirled her around and pushed her onto the stairs. She caught herself with both outstretched hands, bruising her hip on the bannister. “Get dressed for dinner. Wear something frilly. My father still needs convincing.”
He took his silver case from his pocket and lit a cigarette. She clutched at her skirts and stumbled up the stairs while he watched her, smoking and smiling with a glitter in his eyes.
Chapter Thirty-Two
James Moriarty had never been more grateful for the training his parents had given him: the ability to maintain a composed exterior, uttering the correct phrases at the correct intervals, regardless of one’s inner turmoil. Somehow he’d gotten into his clothes, bid Ramsay good-bye, and found his way onto the street, walking toward the Walham Green station.
Habit operated his body while his mind reeled. Ramsay’s last warning had shattered the veneer of his stoic facade like superheated steam bursting through a brittle cast-iron engine. What he’d done to Angelina was far worse than strangling a larcenous lord. He’d cast her to the wolves — real wolves, powerful ones, with very sharp teeth. He’d railed at the woman he loved and marched away with his righteous pride, leaving her to the mercies of men he knew to be capable of the most appalling cruelty.
He couldn’t call that moment back and change what he’d done. He could do penance by dedicating the rest of his miserable life to bringing her tormentors to justice. He had to do more than that though. He had to save her. But how? How?
He desperately needed a plan, but his useless brain whirled with doubts and recriminations. He needed help. He needed someone intelligent enough to understand the situation at once and detached enough to ignore its emotional freight. Someone who would not be intimidated by Nettlefield’s title or balk at a simple case of kidnapping.
He needed Sherlock Holmes. Never mind that the man had developed an antipathy toward him and sent him to jail. If he could help save Angelina, Moriarty would crawl up Baker Street on his hands and knees with his hat in his mouth. He only hoped the detective had returned from wherever he’d swirled off to on Sunday. He remembered Holmes saying the affair would only take a few days, or he hoped that’s what he’d heard.
Moriarty took the underground train from Putney Bridge and ba
rreled up the stairs at the Baker Street station, thrusting people from his path with no regard for courtesy. He ran pell-mell up the street and pounded at Holmes’s door with his fist. He barged past the boy who opened it and hurled himself up the steep stairs to pound again on the upper door.
Someone called, “Enter!” He did so and found the detective sprawled upon his crimson sofa.
“Professor Moriarty!” Holmes raised both arms as if to embrace him from his supine position. “I thought I sent you to the gallows. Have you returned to haunt me? You look remarkably hale for a spirit.” He began to laugh, and his laughter spiraled up with a touch of mania. His countenance seemed oddly feverish.
Moriarty hesitated, looking about the room for clues as to his condition. Dr. Watson was evidently not at home; at least, his medical bag was gone. He had left a syringe on the mantelpiece, however. Careless of him. But no — Moriarty glanced from the syringe to Holmes’s altered visage. Could the man have dosed himself with some powerful drug?
“Cocaine, Professor,” Holmes said, following his train of thought. “I’ve just spent three tiresome days in Paris listening to pompous officials dispute a matter so trivial a child could resolve it. One of them had summoned me as a sort of grandiose bluff. I returned to London to find Watson called away to a patient in the country and no new cases to relieve my boredom. I decided to resort to my favorite palliative: the syringe and the seven-percent solution. There is no better cure for ennui.”
He dragged himself up into a seated position and grinned at Moriarty’s discomfiture. “Since you are at liberty, I deduce that you managed to evade the charges against you. Do enlighten me, I pray you.”
“I am innocent,” Moriarty said. “I was spared the need to supply my own proofs by another murder, perpetrated while I stood handcuffed under the watchful eye of a constable. Even Scotland Yard could see that the two crimes must be related.”