Who Thinks Evil: A Professor Moriarty Novel (Professor Moriarty Novels) (32 page)

“No need to whisper, Sir Anthony,” said the professor. “No reason why we shouldn’t be talking to each other, and if anyone sees you talking out of the side of your mouth like that they may wonder about it.”

“Ah,” said Sir Anthony, turning to face Moriarty. “You’re quite right, of course.”

“Who’s here?” Moriarty asked.

“The Belleville Slicer, and quite probably the prince. Sherlock Holmes is watching in the mews, and he got word to that woman—Red Sally—who’s lurking by the statue, and she sent that very short person, Mummer, who told me as I was coming in. He saw a carriage pull up and a chap who looked to be the Slasher come through into the house. A few minutes later a second vehicle disgorged a cloaked man who seemed to be incapacitated and was helped inside. That would be the prince, or I’m an octopus. Holmes would have stopped them then and there, but there were three burly chaps, and he feared for the safety of the prince.”

“Ah!” said Moriarty. “The wisest course, but it must have been difficult for him to restrain himself, given his impetuous nature.”

“He didn’t say,” said Sir Anthony.

“Now it’s up to us,” Moriarty said, tapping his thumb thoughtfully on the beak of the silver owl head that was the handle of his walking stick.

“What should we do?”

“Who have we inside the house?”

“In addition to you and me? There’s the earl and Mrs. Barnett, who has come in as his niece, and Miss Dilwaddy, her maid. And the duke and duchess, who is pleased that her husband is doing what she wanted to do for once. I don’t think he has told her the reason for his change of mind about attending. And some of the waitstaff, I believe?”

“Two of the servers are my people,” Moriarty confirmed. “Following my instructions, they should leave their putative jobs as soon as they can manage and begin searching the house. Of course, it’s a big house.”

“Won’t they be stopped?”

“Quite possibly. However, the regular staff are all new and probably don’t know each other very well yet, and my lads have glib tongues, so they have a good chance of talking their way out of any situation that may arise.”

There came a riff from the orchestra that might have been a prelude to something, and then a few bars of “Boot and Saddle” from the trumpet, and then expectant silence. The assemblage looked up to the orchestra balcony. The orchestra leader pointed across the room. Their gaze shifted.

The possible Earl of Mersy was standing on the second balcony and leaning forward at a precarious angle toward the crowd.

“My friends.”

Slowly the sounds from those in the ballroom ceased as all looked up and waited.

“It was good of you to come. I am your host. My name is Albreth Decanare. My great-great-great”—he stopped and counted on his fingers, then nodded to himself and went on—“great-grandfather was the Earl of Mersy, and his title has fallen into disuse. My family has been away from England too long. I wish to come back, as my great-great-, ah, ancestor would have wished, and assume my rightful place in the affairs of this country, my country, which I have always loved.”

A smattering of applause broke out from the crowd, but it quickly petered out.

“I invited you all here,” he continued, “to my new London home so we could get to know each other. As the evening continues I hope to meet each of you and thank you personally for coming. So—let us get on with it! Eat! Drink! And shortly we shall dance!” He twirled around once and then disappeared behind one of the heavy drapes that lined the walls of the small balcony.

“The perfect place!” Moriarty said.

“How’s that?”

“That balcony, it’s the perfect place. Visible yet unreachable.”

“The perfect place for what?”

“Murder,” said Moriarty. “You stay here. Find Mrs. Barnett and Pamela—Miss Dilwaddy—and stay close to them. If she sees anyone she recognizes, or if anything else of note happens, attract my attention.”

“How will I do that?” asked Sir Anthony.

Moriarty considered. “A loud noise,” he suggested. “Drop a tray. If no tray is available, have a seizure. Here.” He unpinned the green carnation from his lapel and fastened it onto Sir Anthony’s jacket. “I told my people that if they have anything to report and they can’t find me, go to the man with the green carnation.”

“Very good,” said Sir Anthony. “And then I drop a tray?”

“Do whatever seems appropriate,” Moriarty said. He smiled for an instant and then walked away toward the great double doors leading to the hall.

*   *   *

“It is a pleasure, and an honor, to meet you,” said Albreth, with a minuscule bow.

“Yes?” said Princess Andrea. “For me, also.” She extended her gloved hand, which Albreth took and seemed loath to let go of.

They were standing in a private, or at least empty, alcove off the ballroom, where Macbeth had arranged for them to meet. Princess Andrea Marie Sylvia Petrova d’Abore was everything Albreth hoped, and secretly dreamed, she would be. She looked to be somewhere between seventeen and twenty-five—Albreth wasn’t good with women’s ages—and had long light brown hair that was done up in one of those fancy things that women do their hair up in, topped by a tiara that sparkled with hundreds of tiny diamonds centering around one large green stone that had an inner light of its own. She was tall for a girl, and slender, and dressed in a green gown that discreetly hinted of possible delights beneath.

“Tell me,” Albreth continued, “how long are you going to be here?”

“My mamma wants me home by midnight,” said the princess, “like
Aschenputtel,
you know. But I may stay longer. She’s almost always asleep by midnight anyway.”

“Aschenputtel?”

“Yes. You know—the girl with the cruel stepsisters who goes to the ball.”

“Cinderella?”

“Oh yes? Cinderella?
Cinderella?
” She rolled the word around on her tongue. “So, unlike Cinderella I may stay until the new day has begun.”

“Actually,” Albreth said, “I meant how long are you staying here, in England? Before you return to Courlandt.”

“Sadly,” Princess Andrea said, shaking her head sadly, “we cannot return to our homeland at this time. We are guests of your queen, and thankful for her hospitality.”

“Ah!” said Albreth.

Macbeth appeared from somewhere behind them. “You must mingle,” he told Albreth. “Wander about amongst your people. Go now. I will escort Princess Andrea.”

“His people?” asked the princess.

“I will explain,” Macbeth told her, leading her away. Albreth drooped sadly for a moment, but then straightened up, squared his shoulders, and marched back into the ballroom. A to-be-king has his responsibilities.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT]

FEET, FEET

The trumpet shall be heard on high,

The dead shall live, the living die,

And Music shall untune the sky.

—JOHN DRYDEN

DINNER WAS DONE.
The staff rushed politely about taking up the tables and chairs and clearing away the debris. The time for dancing, or standing around the side of the ballroom with a glass of wine and watching others dance, was approaching. Several servitors in classic Polichinelle costumes—long, baggy white jackets over even baggier white pantaloons and black domino masks—wandered among the guests distributing dance cards. The guests were, for the most part, using this time to inspect the other guests. Two dukes were in attendance, perhaps three, some said, along with a smattering of barons and honorables and sirs and ladies and a real-live princess; from a Balkan country nobody had ever heard of, but a princess nonetheless. Such a pretty young thing.

—No, that’s not her, that’s Lady Coreless.
That’s
the princess, over there with that man with the funny mustache.

—Well, she’s still a pretty young thing.

*   *   *

Pamela stepped up behind Cecily Barnett and clutched at her arm.

“Ouch!” said Cecily. “What is the matter?”

“It’s ’im,” Pamela gasped. “’Im.”

“Him? Him whom? Which one?” Cecily looked around the crowded ballroom.

“’Im with the ‘feet, feet,’ it’s ’im!”

Pamela let go of Cecily’s arm and, with one last “’im,” her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. Slowly she slid toward the floor. Cecily and Sir Anthony were just able to catch her before she collapsed.

“Over there,” Cecily said, pointing with her chin. “There are some chairs by that wall.”

They half led and half carried Pamela over to the chairs and propped her up on one. Her eyes opened and she began taking deep, slow breaths. After a few seconds she sat up. “It was ’im,” she said. She reached up and pulled a long hatpin from her hair. “Where did ’e go?” she asked, waving the hatpin in front of her like a dagger.

“Careful with that thing,” Cecily said.

“I ain’t letting ’im near me. Where is ’e?”

“Which ‘him’ did you see?” asked Sir Anthony, searching around the room for someone who could be “’im.”

“’E were standing over there with that princess,” Pamela said, pointing to the other side of the room with the hatpin.

“The Slicer?”

“No, not the bloke what killed Rose, but the bloke what were with ’im. The ‘feet, feet’ bloke. But I don’t see ’im now.”

“Ah!” said Sir Anthony. “You two stay here and keep looking. I’ll go after him.”

“What should we do if we see him?” asked Cecily.

“Ah, drop a tray on the floor. Scream like you’ve seen a mouse. Something like that. The professor will be listening.”

“I ain’t afraid of mice,” Pamela said.

“Of course you’re not,” Sir Anthony agreed. “What about spiders?”

Pamela nodded. “I could scream if I saw a spider,” she agreed.

“Okay, then. A spider it is!” He headed off across the room.

“Or a bat,” Pamela added, calling after him.

*   *   *

Macbeth opened the narrow door in the right-hand corner of the small balcony. “It’s time,” he said in French, peering into the small room. “How do you feel? Do you remember what you have to do?”

Henry was sitting motionless on a short stool in the corner, his face impassive, as though he had somehow been turned off. Macbeth’s words served to turn him back on, and he slowly looked up, thought for a second, and then giggled. “I know,” he said. “I always know what I have to do.”

A look of mixed irritation and disgust crossed Macbeth’s narrow face. “Not that,” he said. “The rest of it. How to act, where to go … Why is it so dark in here? Turn up the light.”

“The dark is my friend,” Henry said, but he turned the screw on the wall sconce by his stool and brightened the flame. “I can accomplish much in the dark.”

“Yes,” Macbeth agreed. “It seems you can.”

Henry sucked in his cheeks and then released them with a popping sound. “I know what you think of me,” he said. “You think I am a tool, that I can be discarded when you are done with me.” He sucked in his cheeks again and stared at Macbeth for a long moment.
Pop.
“Perhaps you are the tool. Perhaps your very reason for existence is to help me in the Great Design. Have you not seen that I increase daily? That I get larger with every thread?”

Design?
Macbeth thought.
Thread?
“I was unaware of that,” he said.

“You’ll see,” said Henry. “You’ll see … Are we ready?”

Macbeth nodded. “We are.”

“I feel the greatness growing inside of me. Leave me now to prepare.”

Macbeth backed out of the room and closed the door behind him. For a few seconds he stared at the wooden panels; then he turned and went downstairs to join the crowd and await the working of the Plan. His plan, not, he sincerely trusted, Henry’s Great Design. But suppose … No. He shook his head. Besides, after Henry had served his purpose this evening, it was arranged that he would be no more.

Ten minutes passed.

*   *   *

Henry pranced through the doorway and onto the small balcony and danced forward to the railing as though he were on springs. At first no one noticed him as he bounced gently from foot to foot and surveyed the crowd below. Then an elderly colonel of the Horse Guard saw him and poked his neighbor, and a plump woman saw him and
ahemmed
to her husband, and the sighting spread and the room grew quiet except for the low buzzing of muted voices identifying what, or who, they were seeing. A tall, slender man in the elaborate dress uniform of the 10th Hussars, bespangled with medals and ribbons across the chest, he looked, remarked one young lady who was almost overcome by being so near, just like his picture in
Vanity Fair.

“It’s His Royal Highness, that’s who it is, right up there. Trust me.”

“Prince Albert Victor, that’s who it is. I was in the royal box at Ascot with him last year, no farther away from him than I am from you right now. You have my word, and that’s him.”

“I didn’t think any of the royals would be coming to this event,” said a knowledgeable young man. “I actually spoke to the Honorable Hortense, invited her to come along with me, don’t you know, and she said none of them were coming on instructions from the palace.”

“I suppose His Highness can go where he wishes without permission from Grandmama,” opined his companion.

*   *   *

Pamela Dilwaddy, her eyes fixed on the man on the balcony, mouthed, “It’s the other ’im,” and rose from her chair. Cecily put her hand on the girl’s arm and said something to her, but she heard not a word and slid out of the grasp as though it weren’t there and started walking slowly across the room.

For a minute the putative HRH stood on his perch in a regal pose and stared down at the people below and smiled a secret smile. A few who were close thought they heard a giggle, but perhaps it was a random noise from the great room. Then, all at once, Princess Andrea of Courlandt came through the door and appeared beside him. Had she been pushed into the space? It seemed that it took her a moment to regain her balance. She looked around her as though she were not sure just what she was doing there.

Just as those below were thinking, because one could hardly keep from thinking,
Tall, handsome prince, petite elegant princess, perhaps …
they saw the prince take her hand.