by Anna Castle
The audience laughed politely. Royal Society members were hardly housewives.
He resumed his seat. Lord Nettlefield strode onto the dais followed by Mark Ramsay, who took up a position in front of the table between the dynamo and the water pitcher. Moriarty wrestled with his doubts. He couldn’t just leap up and halt the proceedings. What would he say? And he might be wrong, his imagination overheated by Angelina’s worries. He’d have to wait and see how things played out.
Nettlefield exchanged a few words with his secretary, then moved to the center of the dais and faced the audience. He startled as his gaze landed on Moriarty and Angelina, but he quickly regained his composure. Apart from a slight curl of the lip whenever he glanced in their direction, he managed to maintain a professional demeanor.
He introduced his latest enterprise, the Miners Light and Safety Company. “Candles blow out,” he informed them. “Gas can leak, filling the mine with poisonous and flammable fumes. Electricity is far the safest source of power. It’s easy enough to light the tunnels nowadays, but miners want a light that shines directly on the surface where they work. Headlamps supply that need. Our new product supplies a safe, bright, constant light wherever the miner wants it. Tonight I will demonstrate our new device. We think it will greatly improve our miners’ comfort and safety and thereby increase the quantity of coal produced from any given mine.”
He turned toward his secretary. “Mr. Ramsay, if you please.”
Ramsay lifted the headlamp in both hands and stepped forward to pass it to his employer, careful not to twist the wires leading from it or disturb the cable connecting those wires to the dynamo. He then returned to his station.
Nettlefield held the helmet up for all to see. It was a standard canvas construction, like a police helmet with brims fore and aft, augmented by a light bulb centered on the crown.
“The helmet is light and comfortable, made of the highest quality pith. The lamp provides thirty watts of light — the same as those used in the Savoy Theatre.”
Cries of delighted recognition arose.
“Imagine that much light in the dark pit of a coal mine. Bright enough for a performance of H.M.S. Pinafore!”
The audience laughed. Nettlefield had them in his palm. How many would invest in this daft scheme? His lordship seemed entirely at his ease up there. He ought to show some trace of shame at the sight of Angelina, sitting unharmed in spite of his efforts. Moriarty ground his teeth. The man was morally repugnant.
Nettlefield gestured toward the back of the dais. “Behind me, you see a small steam engine, which powers a ten-ampere dynamo. At the mine, of course, we would use a much larger engine to produce as much as two hundred amperes, powering as many lamps as are required. Once switched on, the dynamo supplies a constant flow of electricity through the cable, which some of you may be able to see on the floor here.” He looked at the audience, his lip curling again as his gaze passed over Moriarty and Angelina.
“The cable consists of two copper wires inside a protective sheath. These wires here” — he transferred the helmet to one hand so he could hold up the wires in question — “meet the cable and carry the electrical current up to the lamp. The circuit connects inside the bulb. In actual use, the cable would be much longer. It will run through brackets right down to the bottom of the mine. These lighter wires connect each headlamp to the supply of electricity. In practice, these wires will run under the miner’s jacket to prevent interference with the motions necessary in his work. For tonight, we’ll leave them on the outside. After all, a miner’s jacket is slightly different in material and construction from mine.” He gestured at his impeccable Savile Row suit and got another round of laughter.
“And now for the demonstration.”
Ramsay stepped forward to hold the wires while Nettlefield turned the helmet right way forward. He looked into it, preparatory to placing it on his head.
Ramsay murmured, “Be sure to keep the copper strips aligned on either side of your head, my lord.”
Copper strips? Moriarty’s sense of alarm deepened. Copper would connect the circuit right through Nettlefield’s head. He glanced at others seated on the front bench. Angelina’s face wore a question. No one else seemed to have heard.
Nettlefield lifted the helmet and set it firmly on his head, nodded at his secretary, and faced the audience with his hands on his hips. Ramsay switched on the dynamo, which began to hum loudly. A second later, the lamp on Nettlefield’s head began to glow. The audience gasped.
The secretary watched the lamp achieve a steady light, shot Moriarty a swift, complicit glance, and reached for the pitcher.
“Stop!” Moriarty shot out of his chair just as the water splashed under Nettlefield’s feet. Angelina screamed as he leapt sideways to avoid the flying drops. Nettlefield started shaking in short jerks, eyes wide, tongue lolling in his open mouth. Moriarty risked a step onto the wet patch and snatched the pith helmet from his head, hurling it into the far corner of the room, well away from the water.
“No!” Ramsay wailed. “Let him fry!”
Nettlefield staggered toward the podium, hands outstretched. He grasped the support and leaned on it heavily. He managed to hold out a trembling hand and point at Moriarty. “You!”
Moriarty took a moment to relish the sight of his enemy sprawled across the podium, hair smoking and standing on end, drool trailing down his chin. And was that — yes, it was, a stain spreading from his groin down the legs of his perfectly pressed trousers. His lordship had pissed his bespoke pants.
“No!” Ramsay stood weeping by the table, fists clenched to his chest. “He deserves to die!”
Moriarty stepped past him to switch off the dynamo. Angelina came up to the dais, wrapped her hands around Ramsay’s fists and murmured comforting words in soothing tones. The audience had erupted into confusion. Moriarty stood between them and his beloved, sheltering her and the suffering Ramsay. Let the man have a moment to collect himself.
Ramsay’s eyes met Angelina’s, pleading with her for understanding. “He killed them all, you know. My father lost everything on that Naples Improvement Company. He trusted them, you see, the peers of England. He lost everything. Everything. Do you know what that means to a proud man with a family to feed? He couldn’t face it. He killed himself. He had a life assurance policy, but of course they wouldn’t pay, not for a suicide. He didn’t know that — more fine print. My mother, my sisters, were left with nothing. I was at university in Glasgow. Mother had insisted I stay. I didn’t know how bad it was until she and little Polly were gone. Typhoid, they said, but it was poverty. Hunger and cold. Sarah was forced to marry a man far beneath her station. She died last year and her new babe with her. All gone. All dead. All because of him and his fellow front-sheeters.”
He turned to Moriarty, tears streaming down his face. “I was sure you would understand, Professor. You hate him as much as I do. I almost told you that day on the river. You do understand, don’t you?”
“I do.” Moriarty placed a hand on his shoulder and gripped it, wishing he could offer more but knowing he couldn’t.
Ramsay looked at the hand as if startled by the gesture. Then he turned his pleading eyes to Moriarty again. “What else could I do? What would you have done?”
“Not that.”
“Can’t we help him get away?” Angelina’s voice was soft. “Can’t we let him escape to Jersey and start fresh?”
Moriarty kept his eyes on Ramsay as he answered her. “He doesn’t want that. Not really. Do you, Ramsay?”
Ramsay hesitated, then shook his head. “What would be the point? Everyone I love is gone.”
Chapter Forty-One
Two weeks later, Angelina sat next to Moriarty at the table in the bow window, reading the Sunday papers. She looked forward to having him to herself for a whole day. He’d gone back to work on the Monday after the Royal Society meeting, putting in extra hours to make up for his erratic attendance in the preceding weeks. His colleagues had readily for
given him, as she had predicted, in exchange for the whole, unpublished story. They’d read tantalizing bits in the gossip columns and thirsted for more. Moriarty hadn’t known whether to be appalled or delighted by their friendly curiosity.
“I should choose to be delighted in that case, darling,” she’d told him, enjoying the expression on his face as he applied his powerful mind to that revolutionary idea.
Now he shook his paper open and folded it back to show her the drawing of Mark Ramsay seated in the center of a group of stern men in top hats and spectacles. “They’re allowing a team of nerve specialists to examine him. That’ll be Sir Julian’s doing. I begged him to see what could be done for the man. They can’t ignore two cold-blooded murders, but there are mitigating circumstances.”
Angelina sighed. “Poor lamb. I hope he finds some peace somehow.”
“The trial should be interesting. I doubt they’ll be able to find a jury that doesn’t sympathize with him, at least in part.” He grinned at her. “How rumors do fly!”
“Don’t they though?” She had done her best to spread those rumors, trickling tidbits through the ton about the true history of the Naples Improvement Company. It wouldn’t stop Teaberry and Company, but it would put a crimp in his promotions for a while.
Angelina was no longer invited to the best houses, naturally, but she had been deluged with invitations to the most interesting ones. Lord Nettlefield and his family had withdrawn to Durham for the remainder of the Season.
“Have you written to your parents?” She had asked this question before, but he still hadn’t answered it. “If we’re going to put them at the Brown, we’ll need to make arrangements soon.”
Moriarty laid the paper to one side. “I doubt they’d come, my dearest. They loathe the city. We don’t need them anyway, do we?” He peered across the table at the teapot. “Is there any more tea, or shall I ring for a fresh pot?”
“James! They’re your parents!”
He twitched his eyebrows at her. “Have you invited your father?”
“Touché.” She clucked her tongue. “I did want to meet someone connected to you. Don’t you think they’d like to know?”
“We’ll have photographs taken and send them one.” He half rose from his chair to reach for the pot. He shook it, smiled, and refilled their cups. “I have a brother, Jeremy. He’s a station master in Devonshire. I’ll send him a wire.” He stirred sugar into his cup. “I’m more interested in the honeymoon. Have you decided where I’m taking you?”
“But of course. We’re making a tour of the most fashionable spas on the Continent, starting with Baden-Baden and ending in Monte Carlo.”
Moriarty frowned. “Is there a spa in Monte Carlo?”
She leaned over the arms of their chairs to plant a kiss beside his mouth. “My dear Professor! Have you never been to a casino, and you the most gifted mathematician in England?”
* * *
Angelina’s maids of honor arrived at the Bayswater house to dress the bride. Lady Lucy, Peg, and Viola shooed Moriarty out the door like a muddy dog. He looked so handsome in his new silk hat and morning coat. She waved at him from the bow window. Poor lamb, standing on the pavement in the drizzle, all dazed and forlorn.
Happily, not for long. Sandy and Zeke, dressed to the nines themselves, ushered him into their waiting cab. She hoped they would take him out for a nice stiff drink before the ceremony.
Peg shook out her gown of tulle and white organdy. Lady Lucy made sure the long lace veil was securely attached to the coronet of pink rosebuds. Angelina gave a little squawk as Viola ruthlessly tightened the laces of her corset. Peg held the gown while Angelina wriggled into it, then fastened it up the back. Angelina took few shallow breaths and regarded herself in the inadequate mirror. The effect was worth it. And she wouldn’t have to wear it for long.
Another wedding might soon take place. “Did the letter I gave you do the trick?” she asked Lucy.
“Like a charm. Lord Nettlefield gave us his blessing, just as you predicted.”
Angelina had asked Mrs. Peacock to find something to help Lucy bargain for the man she wanted, even now that her eyes had been opened.
“I don’t have many choices,” the girl had said. “And now that I know the worst . . .”
Mrs. Peacock had come through with proof that Nettlefield had defrauded the late Lord Carling. Lucy threatened to pass it along to the new earl. Nettlefield had seen the wisdom of compromise and granted both his blessing and a fat dowry, settled in a contract inked by a first-rate barrister from Lincoln’s Inn.
Angelina took the girl by both hands and looked her in the eyes. “If you’re really sure, darling, follow my advice carefully. Go to Paris for your honeymoon. Make him buy you lots of clothes. I’ll make a note of the dressmaker you want. When you get home, you’ll be in for a grim year or two in which you’ll simply have to clench your teeth and do your duty. But once you deliver an heir, your life will be your own. Take a lover, travel, enjoy yourself. And call on me at once if Reginald ever fails to treat you with courtesy and respect.”
Lucy nodded solemnly. “I will.” She went out to the sitting room to ring for tea.
Viola closed the door behind her and gave Angelina an appraising look that had nothing to do with her gown. “What name are you planning to sign on the license?”
Angelina bit her lip. “It has to be Gould. James thinks that’s my legal name. I can’t tell him that Victor and I were never married, not legally. He has enough to contend with already.”
Peg shook her head and began humming a tune from The Pirates of Penzance.
“I thought you wanted this one to be the real thing,” Viola said.
Angelina shrugged. “As real as it can be. I can’t write Angelina Buddle. That’s far too long a story.” She stared bleakly into the mirror. “It won’t last anyway. He’s too good for me. In a year or so, he’ll realize his mistake and be glad to be able to get out of it so easily.”
Peg and Viola exchanged doubtful glances but didn’t contradict her. Angelina had rather hoped they would.
* * *
Sir Julian Kidwelly met Moriarty at the church door. He had gladly agreed to act as best man, to Moriarty’s astonishment. Housman and Jackson were there too, peppering Sebastian Archer with questions about the theater world. Sandy and Zeke made six. Moriarty hadn’t been part of such a large group since his rowing club at Cambridge. And these men were all friends, all clapping him on the shoulder, grinning and making silly jokes about honeymoons.
The attention was a little overwhelming. He thought about making a dash for it, but there was the vicar, already in position. His panic must have shown on his face because Captain Sandy and Sir Julian each grabbed an arm and led him firmly up the aisle.
To distract him, Sir Julian said, “You’ll be happy to know that Nettlefield is being shunned by everyone. They can’t take away his seat in the House of Lords, but he hasn’t the slightest chance of getting onto the Board of Trade. It isn’t enough, but it’s something.”
“Better than I’d hoped.” Moriarty took his position facing the pews and was surprised to see the entire Bruffin family seated with Mr. Pickering-Jones. He reminded himself to introduce Pickering-Jones to his Patent Office colleagues. Friends, he should call them now. He also wanted to look into the Bruffins’ situation when they returned from their honeymoon, although he imagined they were already on Angelina’s list.
“Persons who have been wronged,” she’d explained. “If the law can’t give them justice, where are they to turn? With our combined talents, we can help them. We can establish a sort of consulting agency for victims of injustice. If we earn a comfortable living from it, that seems only fair to me.”
The church seemed vast and dim on this rainy Sunday evening. Candles flickered on tall stands, throwing shadows across the vicar’s face. He was an elderly gentleman, tall and lean with grizzled hair and overlarge robes. The ladies arrived, including Mrs. Peacock, and took their seats. The o
rganist began to play Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus” as Angelina paced gracefully up the aisle.
Moriarty watched her in a state of near rapture. He’d once demanded to know who she really was. His question would soon be answered. In a few minutes, she would be Mrs. James Moriarty.
The vicar’s hands trembled with age as he lifted his book. “Do you, Angelina, er —” He paused.
“Gould,” she answered.
Moriarty had to bite back a rebuke. They’d written their names clearly on the license form.
The vicar nodded, his head quavering. “Gould,” he repeated with a curious emphasis.
Slow-witted old fool! The parish absolutely must not hire this incompetent antique.
The vicar made it through the rest of the ceremony. Moriarty kissed his beautiful bride thoroughly and the deed was done.
Angelina beamed at him. “Now off to Monte Carlo, my love.”
The vicar’s head whipped around at her remark, showing remarkable energy for so elderly a man. A jolt of recognition shot through Moriarty as he noticed for the first time the shark’s smile and the hawk-like nose.
Holmes!
Historical Notes
Conan Doyle’s characters
I didn’t dig too deeply into the world of Sherlock Holmes in this book. We have Sherlock, of course, and Dr. Watson. Mrs. Hudson makes a brief appearance. Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard helps get the investigatory ball rolling. I also employ one Inspector Forbes, who was with Scotland Yard in “The Naval Treaty.” I translate him to the wilds of Surrey for a murder at a country estate.
Real people
Only a few historical persons found their way into this book. I mention a Moriarty who “was bishop of Kerry not so long ago.” The astute reader will notice that I do not explicitly claim this Moriarty was actually related to my Moriarty. The good bishop would surely not appreciate the connection. He was David Moriarty, (1814–1877), an Irish Roman Catholic bishop known for his oratorical skills.