Who Thinks Evil: A Professor Moriarty Novel (Professor Moriarty Novels) (28 page)

“Crimea,” muttered the earl darkly. “What was the saying that went around then? ‘If you have the French for an ally, you don’t need any enemies’?”

“Just so,” said Mycroft. “Then there is the fact that Kaiser Wilhelm is Victoria’s grandson.”

“The government certainly wouldn’t allow that to influence British foreign policy,” said the duke.

“Yes, but can the French general staff be sure of that?” asked Moriarty. “Wouldn’t it be more prudent, from their point of view, to get the British government, and the crown, so embroiled in some domestic matter that they are unable to take the time to stare across the Channel?”

The duke stared at Moriarty for a long minute and then screwed his monocle into his right eye and stared for another minute. “By gad!” he said finally. “So this madman is running amuck in London, slaughtering innocent women and children while impersonating His Royal Highness—and someone presumably is shielding him and guiding him, and I suppose providing him with shelter in between his deadly forays. And all this is to make it easier for France to attack Prussia? Is that your notion?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Moriarty. “That’s about it.”

“By gad!” said the duke.

“Do you suppose, honestly suppose,” said the earl, “that Prince Albert is still alive?”

“Oh, yes,” said Moriarty. “I’m sure of it. The necessary culmination of this murderous scheme is to have His Royal Highness caught in the act, or at least shortly after the actual act.”

“I think that is a reasonable assumption,” Mycroft agreed. “Although our knowing the true story won’t help unless we manage to capture the real culprit—this d’Eny fellow. Without him, or at least his body, to back up what we say, who would believe such a tale? I doubt whether
I
would.”

“When do you suppose the final act of this melodrama will commence?” asked the earl.

“Any day—any moment now,” Moriarty told him. “This last … outrage, had it gone as planned, would have been impossible to contain. A whole theater full of people. So whatever was scheduled to come next was probably the chef d’oeuvre. As my friends in the confidence rackets might call it, the ‘convincer.’ After the bit of scrum at the theatre they’ll need a little time to refine their plan, but not very long, I should think. Notice that news of this latest outrage has reached the daily papers. It may be that one of the people involved talked to a reporter, but I think it likely that those behind this plan are preparing the public for what is to come.”

“So we just wait?” asked the duke.

“Oh, no,” said Moriarty. “We seek, we probe, we prepare.”

“Prepare how?”

“Ah!”

Moriarty strode over to the door to the room and pulled it open, almost upsetting Horrock, the butler, who had been not-quite-leaning against it on the other side. “Hampf, erp, mumph,” mumbled Horrock by way of explanation, pulling himself up into a more butlerlike posture. The Duke of Shorham glared at his offending servant but said nothing. One does not reprimand the staff in front of guests.

“Horrock,” Moriarty said, “where did you put the lady who arrived with me?”

“The front sitting room, sir,” said Horrock, “and her servant.”

“Escort them here, would you?”

“Very good, sir.” Horrock turned and headed with a rapid but stately stride toward the front of the house.

Moriarty turned to the others. “The coming outrage has certain … shall I call them goals?—that our antagonists will try to achieve, and that, therefore, we can look for. They will need some location that is public, but contained. A place that has a fair number of people to witness the attack, but where our pseudo-prince can flee before he can be caught. Then, in the search for the attacker, the real prince must be discovered, probably with a suitable amount of blood and gore on his clothing.”

“And the pseudo-prince must be able to escape or disappear safely,” added Mycroft. “If he were to be found, the whole scheme would be exposed.”

“Once his usefulness to the cabal has ended,” Moriarty said, “d’Eny will probably be killed and his body disposed of or rendered unrecognizable.”

Horrock appeared at the door, murmuring, “This way, madam, if you please,” and bowing deeply enough to satisfy a duchess, then he scurried away before the Duke could catch his eye.

Cecily Barnett, in what the fashion writers would call a fetching light blue bonnet and royal-blue high-waisted tailored dress with puff sleeves, paused momentarily in the doorway and then entered the room, extending her hand to Moriarty. Her maid came in behind her, holding her parasol and a slightly larger purse than was quite the fashion.

“Good day, Professor,” Cecily said.

“Good day, madam,” Moriarty said, taking her hand and bowing ever so slightly over it. He turned to the others. “May I present Mrs. Cecily Barnett, Your Grace. Mrs. Barnett, this is His Grace the Duke of Shorham, His Lordship the Earl of Scully, Sir Anthony Darryl, and Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes and I have already met,” Cecily said, dropping a deep, formal curtsey in the general direction of the others, “and it is my pleasure to meet Your Grace, Your Lordship, Sir Anthony.”

The men murmured appropriate responses and looked inquiringly at Moriarty.

“Those preparations I mentioned,” Moriarty said, “Mrs. Barnett has enabled, perhaps I should say refined, one of the more important of them for us.”

“Really?” The duke peered at Cecily with interest. “How so?”

Cecily turned and gestured. “Pamela, my day book, please.”

Her maid came forward and handed her the book. “Here, mum,” she said before retreating back to her spot a respectful distance behind.

Cecily stood, book in hand, while two peers of the realm stared at her thoughtfully. Slowly their visages clouded into puzzled frowns.

Mycroft chuckled. “Very clever,” he said.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow…” said His Grace.

Mycroft chuckled again. “Regard!” he said. “She’s the invisible woman. You see her, but you don’t see her.”

“How is that?” asked the duke. “I see her quite clearly, and what has the book to do with … with whatever?”

“Not Mrs. Barnett,” Mycroft explained, “her maid!”

“Her maid?”

“Quite right,” Moriarty said. “Let me introduce Miss Pamela Dilwaddy, the only person who we know has stared at the face of our killer’s keeper and can recognize him again.”

“A maid?” The Duke of Shoreham looked puzzled. “But I thought the gel who, ah—”

“Mrs. Barnett kindly offered to instruct Miss Dilwaddy in the ways of an upper-class lady’s maid.”

“Not a lady, eh?” asked the earl.

“A lady’s maid can go anywhere,” Moriarty said. “To any gathering or social occasion. All she needs is a lady to attend, but a lady needs an invitation.”

“Come forward, my girl,” Mycroft said, beckoning to Pamela. “Let’s see what you look like under the light.”

Pamela curtseyed and walked carefully forward to a spot next to Cecily, where she stood and stared demurely at the carpet somewhere in front of her.

The duke eyed both women suspiciously, as though someone were trying to accomplish something that he couldn’t quite follow. It had never occurred to him to wonder how ladies’ maids got to be ladies’ maids. Or, for that matter, just how ladies got to be ladies beyond the matter of birth to the right parents. “Tell me, Mrs. Barnett,” he said, “what sort of expertise does it take to train a person in the domestic arts?”

Cecily considered the question. “Aside from the carrying and fetching, an upper-class lady’s maid must speak properly. My father teaches English to American heiresses and others who have the misfortune of believing that they already know how to speak it properly. I learned the pedagogy from him. Teaching proper speech to someone who realizes that it must be learned, like Miss Dilwaddy, is comparatively simple, although equally time-consuming. Many hours of practice are necessary, and the manners—the way of walking, of holding one’s hands, of giving deference to those who believe they are entitled to it—that also is a matter of practice and constant drilling.”

“Um,” said the duke.

“What about that other gel?” the earl asked Moriarty. “The coat-check gel at the Château de Watchamacallit. Didn’t she see the two men, ah, in question?”

“She only saw them masked,” Moriarty told him. “She’s useless for this purpose.”

“Just what is this purpose?” asked the duke.

“I propose that Miss Dilwaddy be seconded as maid to various ladies who are invited to dinners, fetes, or charity events that might attract our evil friend.”

The duke pursed his lips as though he were trying to pull a thought into focus. “What do you suppose this ‘friend’ might be doing at such events?” he asked after a moment.

Moriarty shrugged. “Advance preparation. Checking out the lie of the land. Noting the security arrangements, ascertaining which rooms are likely to be unused during such a gathering, plotting ingress and egress and places of concealment. It isn’t merely a question of committing a murder, remember; it involves arranging for one person to commit the crime and then be spirited away so that another, who must then be produced, may be blamed for it.”

Mycroft, who had been staring at his now empty plate, raised his head. “Large house,” he said. “Not a hall or theatre or establishment of any sort, I fancy. Not for the final act. They’ll want a residence where people of quality are mingling. Enough rooms so that the switch can be handled. Enough people so the thing can’t be hushed up.”

“A ball?” the earl suggested.

“A ball, a reception for someone high up in the social or political world, a society wedding perhaps.”

“So this young lady is to wander about looking for one face among the dozens—perhaps hundreds—of men at such an event. What is she going to say if she is stopped—questioned?” The duke turned to her. “Well, what about it young lady, what would you say?”

Pamela dropped a slight curtsey. “Please, sir,” she said, “her ladyship misplaced her reticule. She sent me to find it. It’s dark blue with”—she described small circles with her hand—“a sort of rose pattern on it. You haven’t seen such a thing, have you?”

“Really, girl?” the duke said, fixing his eyes on her, his voice rising with feigned doubt and displeasure. “Just which ladyship would that be, now?”

Pamela shot a brief glance at Cecily and then met the duke’s stare. “Which ones have you got?” she asked.

“Which … which—” the duke sputtered. Then he broke out laughing. “I think you’ll do, gel,” he said, slapping his knee. “By God, I think you’ll do!”

The earl harumphed and turned to Moriarty. “What should we—what can we—do if this young lady happens to recognize our antagonist?”

“We should have a couple of men inside if that can be arranged, or loitering about outside if necessary,” Moriarty said. “What I would suggest is that they break in and shoot the blighter right then and there, but I don’t suppose that’s feasible.”

“Afraid not,” the duke admitted. “Country of laws and all that.”

“They’ll have to keep a close watch on him while he is—wherever he is,” Mycroft said, “in case this is the actual mission rather than a mere reconnaissance. If he leaves without causing an incident for which he can be arrested, he’ll have to be followed. And God help the man who loses him!” He turned to Sir Anthony. “I believe I’ll put you in charge of that.”

“Many thanks, Mr. Holmes,” Sir Anthony replied.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE]

WESTERLEIGH HOUSE

They have much wisdom yet they are not wise,

They have much goodness yet they do not well,

(The fools we know have their own paradise,

The wicked also have their proper Hell).

—JAMES THOMSON, “THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT”

HE FELT STRANGELY CALM.
Westerleigh House was not a castle, it was only sixty or seventy years old, it was on Totting Square right in the heart of London, and he really preferred the countryside. His castle in the countryside if it came to that. Still …

The die was cast, the Rubicon was crossed, the … the … he searched his mind for another simile. The Ides of March were—no, perhaps not the Ides of March. Forget about the bloody Ides of March. The bloody Ides … He was practicing using “bloody” in a sentence. British gentlemen, he believed, said “bloody.” Not around ladies, of course. Bloody.

The hall was ready, the invitations were sent. The Dowager Countess of Neath had agreed to be hostess—no unmarried young lady would attend an event without an official hostess, so Macbeth had assured him. Even then her mother or a maiden aunt would come along as chaperone. Assisting as hostess was a service that the dowager countess performed regularly, and her price was reasonable. Now the acceptances were coming in. Many of the best people—the
very
best people—were curious about this Earl of Mersy and his claim to be the last Plantagenet and direct heir to the throne. If only four hundred years of history could be reversed.

As indeed they could—so Macbeth told him, and surely Macbeth should know. Those Germans on the throne didn’t realize how shaky was their … their seat. How slender was the thread by which they stayed in Windsor Castle and Buckingham Palace and all those other places that his ancestors—
his
ancestors—had probably once owned. Just which castles had the Plantagenets owned? He’d have to ask someone.

Albreth Decanare, son of a butcher—a very rich butcher, to be sure, but still a butcher—and now claimant to the title Earl of Mersy and aspirant to the highest position in the British realm, was, with the aid of that fierce and frightening man he called Macbeth, going to turn those aspirations into reality. He was going to replace that doddering old lady in her widow’s weeds and take his place as the rightful king of England—and, of course, Scotland and Wales, and the overseas dominions—and emperor of India. He didn’t know anything about India. He’d have to look it up after he took the throne.

Albreth’s musings were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall outside his study (in the
gallery
outside his
drawing room,
he corrected himself—precision in language was the mark of the true aristocrat), and Colonel Auguste Lefavre, henceforth known as Macbeth, opened the door and flung himself into the room. Exuberant in every motion and positive in every action, that was Macbeth. Even when standing still he gave the impression that it was merely a brief pause before he’d be dashing off.