London, May 1887
“I believe we have a new client, darling.” Angelina turned from the window, twisting half around in a way that accentuated the absurdity of her fashionable walking dress. Its bustle extended so far she looked like a centaur draped in cascades of blue-checked silk — a very feminine centaur, with twinkling amber eyes and chestnut curls piled atop her head. Still, one expected to find that second little pair of feet poking out beneath the flounces.
James Moriarty closed his book over his thumb to lend his full attention to his wife. They’d been married more than a year, yet he never tired of watching her. She managed to make the extreme fashions of the day seem a natural part of a woman’s charm. He never ceased to marvel that such a rare creature had chosen to share his life.
He also never doubted her assessments of people. “What does he want? Or is it a woman?”
“Man, not woman, but I can’t deduce much from the top of a hat and a shilly-shally pace. He’s a City man, judging by the sober Prince Albert overcoat and the newspaper tucked under his arm. Something to do with money, one supposes, since that’s your specialty. At any rate, you’d best put aside your book. He’s finally persuaded himself to climb the steps.”
Moriarty replaced his thumb with a leather bookmark as the door knocker sounded downstairs. Voices murmured on the ground floor, and moments later their young footman ushered the visitor into the sitting room. “A Mr. Richard Barrett to see you, Perfessor.”
A youngish man of average height in a conservatively cut black suit stood in the doorway, a doubtful smile quirking his lips. He wore his brown hair closely cropped with brushy sideburns, a short moustache, and a clean chin.
As the footman bowed and left, Moriarty rose, extending his hand. “I’m James Moriarty, and this is my wife.” The men shook hands, and the visitor bowed his head toward Angelina.
“What can we do you for you, Mr. Barrett?” she asked.
“I need advice, Professor. I’m caught on the horns of a rather peculiar dilemma and can’t see my way clear. My aunt, Mary Peacock, suggested I consult you about it.” His gaze shifted doubtfully toward Angelina. “I should note that the matter is highly confidential. The reputations of honest men may be at risk.”
Moriarty smiled blandly. “You may rely on my wife’s discretion, as I rely upon her good judgment.” He could only imagine Angelina’s response to being shooed out of the room while the men conversed. He’d have to move into his club until the conflagration abated.
Barrett nodded. “I meant no disrespect, Mrs. Moriarty. I only hope my story won’t be too tiresome for you. I’m a stockbroker, you see. Most women find financial matters terribly dull. All those fussy numbers.” He smiled at her in a manner he doubtless imagined to be charming.
Moriarty had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from breaking into a grin. Angelina’s eyes flashed, but her tone was gracious. “I’ll endeavor to stay awake, Mr. Barrett. Won’t you sit down and tell us about this dilemma of yours?”
She directed him to the wide armchair centered before the fireplace that they thought of as the client’s chair — the place where people in trouble sat and told them curious tales. The Moriartys took their accustomed seats on either side. His chair faced the client directly, while hers was slightly out of line, allowing her to study the visitor unobtrusively without disturbing the flow of his narrative.
Barrett leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “Now that I’m here, I’m not sure where to begin.”
“You’ve told us you’re a stockbroker,” Moriarty said, “and that reputations are at risk. I presume your dilemma has to do with an issue of stock or some other incident at the brokerage house where you work. If Mrs. Peacock sent you to us, it’s most likely a matter of fraud.”
Barrett gaped as if astonished by a feat of deduction, but Moriarty wasn’t flattered. Surely that much would be obvious to anyone. Mrs. Peacock was a banker’s widow who had helped them unravel an elaborate swindle some time back. She wouldn’t send her nephew to ask them for straightforward investment advice or about a matter of the heart.
“I have no proof,” Barrett said, “merely a suspicion based on a bit of overheard gossip. That sounds like nothing now that I say it out loud. It isn’t even about the firm where I work — or did until yesterday. It’s about a new position. They expect me to start Monday morning, but now I’m wondering if I should go at all.” He squeezed his hands with his thighs, his whole posture pulling inward in his reluctance to embark on the story he’d come to tell.
“I see,” Moriarty said, growing a little impatient. “I appreciate your reticence. But you’ll have to tell me what you heard and what you think it means if you want my advice.”
“Yes, yes.” Barrett drew in a breath and straightened his shoulders. “Reputation is everything in my line of work, you know. I’ve spent years building mine, along with a list of clients who trust me to take care of their money. Clements and Weatherly hired me on the strength of both the reputation and the list. Have you heard of them?”
Moriarty shook his head.
“Well, Clements Bank has been around forever, of course. Steady firm, very sound, cut from the same cloth as my father’s bank.” He turned toward Angelina with a smile. “Barrett’s Investment Bank on Cornhill. You won’t know of it. It’s small, though well regarded.”
“Is that the job you’re leaving?” Moriarty asked.
“I’ve learned everything I can there. I want a new challenge, something with more scope. I’ve just turned thirty, and my wife’s expecting.” He broke off with a wide grin that washed the anxiety from his pleasant features, making him look much younger.
“Congratulations,” Moriarty said. “But it doesn’t sound like such a great change, from one small bank to another.”
“Ah, but unlike my father, Mr. Clements is open to new ideas. He’s brought in a new partner and is branching out into international markets. A fellow named Frank Weatherly. You won’t have heard of him either unless you follow the business news pretty closely. He made quite a name for himself by getting into Bengal coal in a big way.”
“Coal from India?” Moriarty asked, surprised. He’d been expecting something more exciting, like diamond mines in Zanzibar or a gravity-defying railroad in Peru.
“India.” Barrett pointed a finger at him with a knowing smile. “There’s no point building railways if there’s no coal to power the trains. Weatherly’s the one who hired me. I’m to be head of their new American investments division. Mostly railroads and mining concerns. All growing like topsy, I can tell you! Nothing but expansion in those countries these days.”
Moriarty exchanged a quick look with his wife. Expansion, yes; both actual and fictional. Mines with no metal, trains without tracks. The average investor had little ability to investigate the claims for themselves and was thus easily cheated. “Did the gossip you overheard have to do with this Weatherly?”
Barrett nodded. “I was having lunch in a chophouse down the street from our bank last week. I’d just written to him accepting the position. I’ll confess I was rather counting my chickens, dreaming about South American copper and calculating miles of railroad at so many pounds the mile. Then two other fellows sat down at the table behind me and began talking in the sort of coarse whispers that tend to prick up a fellow’s ears.”
“The sound of inside information,” Angelina said.
“That’s it exactly.” Barrett tucked his chin in surprise at her acuity.
Moriarty refrained from rolling his eyes. “What did they say?”
“Sorry, Professor. I’m not usually so scattered. This business has tied me up in knots. What caught my attention was the name Frank Weatherly, followed by a short laugh — a cynical sort of bark. Then the older man said, ‘I’d watch out for him, were I you. Give whatever he’s offering a wide berth. He was a protégé of Oscar Teaberry, you know.’” Barrett paused, waiting to see if that name rang any bells.
It did — loud ones. The Moriartys had firsthand knowledge of the tricks to be learned in Teaberry’s School of Swindlers. Angelina’s eyes took on the smoldering look reserved for those she would gladly condemn to the lowest circle of hell.
“We’ve heard of him,” Moriarty said without further elaboration.
“I’ve never met the man myself,” Barrett said, “but I heard he left the country under a cloud, leaving a slew of broken companies in his wake. I’ve no reason to believe Weatherly is one of that kind, but those chappies in the chophouse seemed pretty sure of their information. I wanted to stretch myself, Professor, take on a bit more risk, but strictly within the bounds. I haven’t fallen that far from the old apple tree!”
“Now I understand your dilemma,” Moriarty said. “If this Weatherly is cut from Teaberry’s cloth, you don’t want to ruin your own reputation by joining his firm. On the other hand, if you decline the position on the strength of a rumor and he turns out to be an honest businessman, you’ll have thrown away a first-rate opportunity.”
“And shown myself to be a man whose word can’t be trusted. They’re expecting me to start work in two days!”
“Can you put them off for another week?” Moriarty asked. “Give yourself time to investigate? I can help with that. I have a connection or two in the City.” He had one, actually, a friend from the Pythagoras Club. Sir Julian Kidwelly made it his mission to know everything that happened in the business world. If there were whispers about Weatherly, he’d have heard them.
Barrett shook his head. “Not possible, I’m afraid. They were very firm about wanting an immediate start. They’ve got a big project cooking and want my help from the beginning.”
“Have you spoken with your father about your concerns?” Angelina asked. “He must know Mr. Clements at least.”
“They belong to the same club. I talked with Dad when I first spotted the advertisement. He knew I was looking, of course, and agreed that it was time for me to spread my wings. He had nothing but praise for George Clements and nothing against Frank Weatherly, but I wouldn’t say the governor is altogether in the know, if you follow me.” Barrett shrugged, the tightness of his frown speaking volumes about his chafing at the bonds of his father’s small world. “I’m probably making a mountain out of a molehill, Professor, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m about to step into a hornet’s nest. I haven’t slept in three nights. It’s beginning to worry my wife.”
“Have you confided in her?” Angelina asked lightly.
“Heaven forbid! She’d never understand it. Besides, she shouldn’t be worrying about such things in her condition. That’s why I went to talk with Aunt Mary yesterday, to get an impartial view. She suggested I come see you, though I frankly can’t imagine what you can do. I’ve either got to go in on Monday or not and take the consequences either way.”
Moriarty leaned back in his chair, stroking the new beard he’d grown at Angelina’s instigation. He didn’t think it suited him — having hair on his chin emphasized the lack of it on the top of his head — but she liked it, and that was enough. “Did I hear you say you’d never met either Clements or Weatherly in person? They didn’t require a personal interview?”
“They seemed to think a reference from my father was enough, which it is. Dad’s not the sort of man to recommend me just because I’m his son. Since this is a new gambit, whoever takes the job will be starting from scratch in any event. So no, I’ve never laid eyes on either man.”
“That’s good,” Moriarty said, “because I have an idea, though you may find it a bit preposterous.”
“I’m open to anything that will let me get a good night’s sleep.”
“I suggest we effect a substitution.” Moriarty smiled at his wife, who nodded her approval. “Let me present myself on Monday morning in your stead. I’ll scout about, find a way to get my nose into the books, and see what I can see.”
“You go instead of me?” Mr. Barrett’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “But — but — wouldn’t that be a sort of fraud in itself?”
Moriarty frowned, wagging his head from side to side. “In a way, I suppose it would. Although I suspect your instincts are sound, Mr. Barrett. You are accustomed by experience and training to read between the lines, to evaluate the truth or falsity of a prospectus or a proposal. Also, the odds of a Teaberry associate engaging in unscrupulous actions are too high to ignore.”
Angelina leaned forward to place a hand on the stockbroker’s arm. “There’s more at stake than your professional reputation, Mr. Barrett. What about that list of clients you’ve taken care of over the years? I know the sorts of people who invest their savings in safe, steady banks like Barrett’s. Widows, clergymen, retired military men. Do you think you’ll be able to recommend the stocks offered by your new firm to them with a whole heart?”
Barrett’s face lengthened. “No, I could not, Mrs. Moriarty. You’ve put your finger right on it. I must know the truth. But shouldn’t I be the one to scout about, as you put it, Professor? Surely that would be simpler?”
“Simpler, yes.” Moriarty leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, his posture suggesting a willingness to consider the practicalities. “How comfortable do you feel about rifling through your superior’s desk drawers and confidential papers?”
“Oh!” Barrett grimaced. “Not at all, I should say.”
“I’m sure you know more about legitimate brokering than I do, Mr. Barrett, but you probably can’t spot a fraud as quickly as I can. And this way, if and when I find evidence of shady dealings, you’ll be in the clear, with no taint of association. If I find nothing but an honest business led by honorable men, then, ah . . .” Moriarty looked to his wife for inspiration.
“Then you’ll confess the ruse,” she said, “with a full explanation of why you considered it necessary. If reputations are as important as you say, these men will be glad to nip those ugly rumors in the bud. You might even persuade them to spread the word that they staged the thing themselves to be certain all was on the up and up.”
“It might not work, mind you,” Moriarty said. “They might toss you out on your ear.”
“They might,” Barrett said, “but they’d never mention it to outsiders, so I’d be free to go back to my old job and start over.” He pursed his lips, nodding to himself while he thought it over. “It’s a gamble either way, isn’t it? That’s the nature of the stock market. You learn as much as you can about any given investment, then place your bids and hope for the best.” He clapped his hands together, an eager smile brightening his face. “How shall we proceed?”
* * *
MORIARTY PAUSED OUTSIDE the imposing stone building on Threadneedle Street, taking a moment to collect himself before entering. He’d attempted such an impersonation once before with mixed success. This time, however, he had coaching from an expert — his own wife. Angelina had advised him to be himself, assuring him that many an actor had enjoyed a long, successful career by applying that method. He and Barrett had spent Sunday afternoon swotting the art of stock-brokering and the current state of the market. He was ready.
He pushed through the huge oak doors into the open lobby through which men and women moved briskly, their low voices producing that hushed bustle characteristic of places where large sums of money were exchanged. He climbed the curving marble stairs to the first floor and paused again outside the pebbled glass door leading into Clements Bank. The name was in the midst of being changed. The word “Clements” appeared to have been erased and re-lettered somewhat higher than before with an ampersand centered beneath it. There the painter had paused, leaving his can and brush tucked against the wall.
Moriarty sniffed the air, detecting not a trace of paint in the cool, still air. He bent to touch the stiff brush and found it as dry as the wood paneling behind it. Rubbing his fingers together, he felt a faint powdering of dust. Those mute objects had been waiting for some time. One would imagine a new partner to be eager to see his name on the front door, though things appeared to be otherwise at this firm.
A secretary in a stiff collar led him back to the inner sanctum of George Clements’s office, a large room handsomely furnished with Turkey carpets and plenty of polished mahogany, where both partners awaited their new employee. A portrait of the bank director hung behind the wide desk, to remind the man of himself in his prime, one supposed.
The original of the portrait stepped forward to shake hands. He met every expectation for a respectable banker, being gray-haired and a little portly, wearing a well-cut morning suit with a gold watch chain draped across his striped silk vest.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this opportunity,” Moriarty said, giving the offered hand a firm shake. “I’m frightfully keen to get started.”
Clements smiled at the eager words, though the expression didn’t reach his pale eyes. A hint of something troublesome lurked in their depths. Regret? Fear? An old ache in his old back?
Angelina would know. She had the gift of reading such minute signs. They must devise a way for her to meet these people.
Clements retreated to stand beside his empty desk, leaving the field to his new partner. Frank Weatherly was geniality incarnate. Lean and confident, with his dark-red hair combed slickly back and his thin moustache waxed into points, he gripped Moriarty’s hand with aggressive vigor. Now he set about quizzing him on the current state of the market; an exercise better performed before hiring than after, one should think.
Moriarty acquitted himself well, thanks to Barrett’s coaching. He had a general understanding of how stocks were valued and quoted, a subject well within the scope of a former maths professor. He didn’t expect to be here long enough to actually sell anything.
Weatherly led him on a tour of the premises, introducing him to the rest of the staff. He and Clements shared a secretary, which seemed oddly frugal and suggested the senior partner no longer made an active contribution. Another broker named Charles Huxley, a handsome man with fair hair and a strong jaw, was introduced with a wink as “the man in charge of the rest of the world — Asia and Africa.” Huxley gave Moriarty a sharp-eyed inspection, nodding to himself as if some wish had been satisfied by the new member of the team.
“How long have you been with the firm?” Moriarty asked.
“Oh, Frank and I go way back,” Huxley said, a flick of the eyebrows implying a shared youth of wild adventures. “I’m the one who recommended him to the old man, as a matter of fact. He’s my wife’s father, you know. George Clements, I mean — not this clown.”
They all laughed jovially, but Moriarty heard the second alarm bell ringing. Weatherly led him across the corridor to his own office, commenting as he opened the door, “We’ll get your name up in a week or so. The painter’s been stuck at home with a nasty case of flu.”
Plausible enough, though there must be other painters in London. Moriarty’s office was small and scantily furnished with a modest desk, two straight-backed visitor chairs, a single case of leather-bound books, and a small portrait of the queen. A stack of newspapers lay on the desk beside a fan-shaped display of colorful stock certificates.
“Those are the new issues,” Weatherly said, tucking his thumbs into his vest pockets. “You’ll want to get your clients enrolled straightaway. Prices are going up! Time is of the essence.”
Moriarty picked up the first certificate, for the Calcutta Tramway Company. It bore an engraving of a train driven by a turbaned engineer with the usual legal verbiage about transferability across the bottom in a fine italic script. “This does look promising. I’ll study the prospectus and get some letters out right away.”
“Prospectus?” Weatherly scoffed. “Trust me, Barrett, these stocks will sell themselves.”
The third bell rang, loud and clear. “I like to know what I’m offering. Some of my regulars are fairly astute. They’ll ask questions, which I ought to be able to answer.”
“If you insist. I’ll have one of the clerks make copies of the front sheets for you.” Weatherly acted as if the request were exceedingly fussy. “I suppose it will take you time to get into the swing of things around here. We adopt a brisker pace than old-fashioned banks like Barrett’s, you’ll find.”
Moriarty mustered a smile. “Old habits die hard. I do hate to be a bother, especially on my first day.” He’d bet a guinea that front sheets were all they had for any of these companies — if there really were any such companies. He’d get a single page listing the board of directors, each of whom had probably been paid cold cash for the use of his name, and a description of the company designed to be as vague as possible while mentioning a tantalizing number of exotic locales.
“Meantime,” Weatherly said, pointing his chin at the stack of newspapers, “I took the liberty of providing you with some reading material. The very latest, from San Francisco to Buenos Aires, to get acquainted with your new territory. I’d study them carefully. Never know what you’ll find hidden in the society pages or the local news. Opportunity abounds, Mr. Barrett! But get those letters out to your clients first. You’ll find everything you need in the drawers there, and any of the clerks can give you a hand. You need only ask.”
On that inspiring note, he left, closing the door behind him. Moriarty sat in the chair, which creaked as it accepted his weight. He turned to study the volumes on the shelves and heard the last alarm bell clanging. This up-and-coming firm had supplied the new head of its American investments division with a complete set of Encyclopedia Britannica from 1851, the year Clements Bank had been founded.
A slow burn of anger heated Moriarty’s chest. They’d obviously hired honest young Richard Barrett as a dupe for some scheme and hadn’t even bothered to dress the stage properly. They didn’t expect him to be here long enough to object. The plot must be nearing its climax.
* * *
“I DO HOPE YOU CAN HELP me, Mr. Holmes. I greatly fear my husband has gotten himself into some kind of terrible trouble.”
“Never fear.” Sherlock Holmes rubbed his long hands together briskly, as if eager to leap up and follow the trail at once. “We’ll at least be able to find out where he’s spending his days.”
John Watson supplied the reassurance his friend had omitted. “You’ve come to the right place, Mrs. Barrett. We’ll get to the bottom of this in short order, I assure you.” He smiled at her in his best bedside manner.
The well-dressed woman, not yet thirty and several months pregnant, sat in the client’s chair in the sitting room at 221B Baker Street. She’d read about Holmes in The Strand Magazine, which she’d found rolled up in her husband’s overcoat pocket. Watson’s story had convinced her to consult the famous detective, overcoming her natural reluctance to pry into her husband’s work life.
“He started the new job on Monday last,” she told them. “Or so I thought. Now I doubt he’s been anywhere near Clements and Weatherly. Something’s been wrong since the first day. His manner as he kissed me good-bye that morning was peculiar, for one thing; a little anxious, which I would expect, but oddly unhurried, which I would not.”
“New positions always cause a few butterflies,” Watson observed.
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “That strikes me as slender cause for alarm. There must have been other signs.”
“I know my husband, Mr. Holmes. He has been a different man since last Monday morning. No.” She broke off abruptly and tilted her head as if summoning a memory. “Since a week ago Saturday. He’d been a bundle of nerves all the preceding week, tossing and turning every night, refusing to confide in me. He said he didn’t want to worry me in my condition.” She paused, looking from one man to the other.
Holmes nodded. “I wondered if that wasn’t the fundamental problem. He wouldn’t be the first man to be daunted by the prospect of fatherhood.”
“How far along are you?” Watson asked.
“Five months,” she answered proudly. “And no, that isn’t it. We’ve been through all that already. That’s why he wanted the new job with its higher salary and promise of more down the road. I was content the way we were, but he feels the need to conquer a new world for me.”
“We can’t blame him for that, can we, Holmes?” Watson beamed at her.
Holmes ignored the sally. Such commonplaces bored him. “What makes you think he isn’t going to work?”
“His clothes.” She pursed her lips prettily, as if expecting an objection to such a trivial form of evidence.
Holmes nodded. “An odor caught in the wool, I suppose?” He shot a glance at Watson.
“Rather a lack of odor. I feared the same thing,” she said, understanding the glance, “though I never truly believed my husband would betray me. I smelled neither perfume nor tobacco, nor other tavern smells, if I may put it that way. But I found a spattering of bird droppings on the shoulders of his overcoat and flakes of black paint on his tweed trousers. I believe he’s spending his day in a park somewhere.”
“We have been enjoying unusually fine weather for May,” Holmes said. “I don’t suppose you thought to bring me those flakes of paint. Given time, I could determine precisely which bench he’s been sitting on.”
“I didn’t think of it.” Mrs. Barrett unclasped the handbag she’d been holding in her lap. “I did bring these. I found them pushed down into in his jacket pocket.” She handed Holmes a slip of paper and a crumpled bag.
He examined the slip of paper first. “Coat check at the British Museum, dated last Thursday.” He passed the ticket to Watson, then inspected the small bag with his characteristic intensity. He opened it, sniffed at the contents, then took something from within and popped it into his mouth. Watson had long since ceased to express alarm at the rashness of his sampling methods.
Holmes chewed the morsel, swallowed it down, and grinned. “Roasted hazelnuts, well salted, from the vendor at the entrance to Russell Square. I’m acquainted with every form of portable comestible sold on the streets of London from Hackney to Westminster.”
“Russell Square!” Mrs. Barrett sat back in her chair, her face a mixture of relief and puzzlement. “What on earth can he be doing there?”
“Nothing too nefarious,” Holmes said with a smile. “For whatever reason your husband is avoiding his office, you can find some reassurance in the fact that he chooses to spend those hours in a place of learning.”
She pursed her lips, not entirely convinced. “I want to know why he isn’t going to work, as he allows me to believe he is, every morning when he leaves the house. I’d follow him myself if I could. But he takes the omnibus down to the City. However crowded it might be, he’d never fail to notice his own wife.”
“Did you try getting ahead of the bus in a hackney cab?” Holmes asked.
“Only once. We must have gotten too far ahead. I walked up and down the street opposite Clements Bank for as long as I could without becoming conspicuous, but I never saw Richard approach from either direction. It isn’t conclusive, unfortunately.” Her porcelain brow creased in vexation, bringing a smile to Holmes’s narrow lips.
He nodded, pleased with her acuity. “Indeed, absence of evidence is not proof of absence. Have you tried simply walking into the building and inquiring after your husband? You might pretend to be out shopping and want him to join you for tea.”
She gave him such a weary look that Watson had to fake a cough to hide his grin. “If it were that easy, I wouldn’t need your help, Mr. Holmes. My attempt to visit my husband at work is what elevated my state of alarm to its current pitch. I dressed especially well that morning and entered the bank building shortly before twelve o’clock, planning to invite Richard to take me to lunch. Clements is on the first floor behind an unfinished sign. I entered the premises and asked the clerk at the reception desk to direct me to Mr. Barrett’s office. I didn’t give him my name, nor did he ask for it. Stockbrokers have many ladies among their clientele, you know. The clerk said, ‘Oh, you’ve just missed him. You must have passed him on the stairs.’”
“Did you pass anyone on your way up?” Holmes asked.
“Yes; a gentleman who raised his hat to me as he went by. I’m certain I never laid eyes on him before. So I asked the clerk to describe Mr. Barrett and he obliged with a description that suited the man on the stairs, but not Richard: taller than average, long-limbed, nearly bald, with a short beard. Richard is of average height and build and clean-shaven, with a lovely head of hair.”
Acute interest sparked in Holmes eyes at the mention of the bald head, although he was wise enough not to leap to conclusions. Professor Moriarty was scarcely the only balding man in London. Still, the possibility of his favorite rival’s involvement added spice to the dish, ensuring that he would give this case his undivided attention.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, they divided the surveillance task between them. Watson would follow the green Highbury omnibus, sticking as close to Mr. Barrett as possible. They guessed he would follow his established pattern, spending the morning in the British Museum and the afternoon in Russell Square, which Watson could monitor easily enough in his ordinary clothes. He had no gift for disguises.
Holmes, on the other hand, dressed as a workman with brushy moustache and sideburns, adding a bowler hat that he’d beaten to a shapeless mass with a cricket bat. He would go directly to Threadneedle Street and find ways to keep an eye on the front door of Clements Bank, noting everyone who entered. He didn’t say it, but Watson knew he expected to see Professor Moriarty enter the building a few minutes before ten o’clock.
“Keep Barrett in your sights at all times, Watson,” Holmes admonished. “Be especially alert to any opportunities for him to exchange a message with anyone.”
“Good thought,” Watson said. He hadn’t considered it. They went their separate ways.
Watson spent a pleasant morning in the reading room at the British Museum catching up on back issues of the Illustrated London News. He had to change seats twice to maintain a view of the entrance and was then forced to abandon a thrilling Wilkie Collins story when Barrett passed right by him on his way out. They enjoyed a leisurely lunch at well-separated tables in the dining room of a middling hotel on Montague Street. Then they strolled toward Russell Square, picking up newspapers along the way. Watson bought the latest copy of the Illustrated, vainly hoping for another Wilkie Collins. They settled on separate benches and spent the afternoon reading in the mild spring sunshine.
Bells tolled the three-quarter hour somewhere nearby, and both gentlemen checked their watches: a quarter to five, time to go home. They folded up their papers and rose. Watson stuffed his into a pocket, but Barrett left his on the bench for some lucky scavenger. Watson followed him to the stop and watched him board the Highbury omnibus in the direction of Islington. His work was done for the day. One of the boys in Holmes’s troop of irregular assistants would watch Barrett’s house until the lights went out.
Watson had time to wash up, change into his smoking jacket, and enjoy a pipe beside the fire before Holmes returned. It took only a few minutes to report his uneventful day.
“Your time was not wasted, Watson,” Holmes said. “Our assumptions have now been duly confirmed. My hypothesis was also sustained. The balding man spending his days at Clements and Weatherly is none other than our old friend Professor James Moriarty.”
“Intriguing,” Watson said. “Were you able to learn what he’s up to?”
“No, but it obviously has something to do with stocks since Clements Bank has been transformed into an investment firm — recently, one would assume from the unfinished lettering on the door. However, the painter left off in the middle of that job some time ago, by the dust on the expensive camel-hair brush he left behind.”
“What does that suggest to you?”
“Nothing yet,” Holmes said in a musing tone. He stood before the mirror over the mantelpiece peeling the false moustache and sideburns from his face. He poured a splash of gin on his handkerchief to remove the glue, then helped himself to a short whiskey. He sat in his favorite chair and crossed one long leg over the other, ready to speculate. “Moriarty seems to be making a specialty in financial crimes; whether to further them or hinder them seems to depend on the circumstances of the moment. Either way suggests that something at Clements and Weatherly is not entirely aboveboard.”
“Barrett must be in on it, whatever it is. He behaved as though reading newspapers from ten to five was his regular work.”
“And so it may be. Moriarty undoubtedly paid him to stay away in order to take his place. He must have been watching for an opportunity to infiltrate the establishment. Toward what end remains to be discovered.” He shot Watson an amused glance. “While we could report to Mrs. Barrett that her husband is harmlessly occupied and that she has no need to worry on that score, we cannot estimate how long this peculiar situation will obtain, nor make any prediction as to its outcome without further investigation.”
Watson nodded. “I understand. Half an answer is worse than none in this case. What do you propose to do?”
“We must pay a visit to Clements and Weatherly ourselves tomorrow. I was able to ascertain that they have a broker who specializes in Asian investments. You, my good doctor, will awaken with an overwhelming desire to purchase railway shares in Afghanistan, inspired, no doubt, by your military service in that region.”
* * *
THEY ENTERED THE LOBBY the next morning at about half past eleven and crossed to a curving marble staircase. As they reached the midpoint, they observed a woman at the top dressed in the height of fashion, accompanied by an equally well-dressed youth of some fourteen years. Holmes caught Watson’s sleeve to slow his pace, allowing the pair to reach the bank’s door and enter.
“That’s Mrs. Angelina Moriarty, with their footman, Rolly Wellington, if I’m not mistaken. Why should they need an accomplished lock-picker today, I wonder?” Holmes raised an arched eyebrow.
“It appears we have arrived in the nick of time,” Watson replied.
Holmes peered into the pebbled glass set into the front door, watching the brilliant hues of Mrs. Moriarty’s costume shimmer out of sight. Then he opened the door slowly, and the two gentlemen entered a miniature version of the lobby downstairs, similarly equipped with a marble floor and a mahogany reception counter angled across one side. The counter was unmanned at the moment; presumably while its minder guided Mrs. Moriarty and her little pickpocket down the long carpeted hall on the right.
Beyond the counter were two rows of desks, each occupied by a gentleman in a dark suit. Several faces turned inquiringly in their direction. Holmes pointed toward the hall and said, “Afghanistan,” in a foppish voice half an octave higher than his natural voice. He had dressed as a dandy today, pairing a red wig and false beard with a garish yellow-and-green-checked suit and black-rimmed pince-nez.
One of the clerks smiled and nodded, but Holmes had already sauntered into the hall. Mrs. Moriarty, several yards ahead, raised a lace-gloved hand and rapped twice on a door as she passed it. On reaching it, Watson read the label Americas written in slightly uneven letters. He though it odd they hadn’t bothered to add Barrett’s name until he passed a door on the opposite side labeled Asia & Africa. Perhaps the signs had been painted before the brokers were hired.
The hall widened into a cross-shaped waiting area, furnished with a few comfortable chairs and small tables offering business-oriented journals. Mrs. Moriarty had sailed through without a pause, but Holmes took advantage of the semiprivate space. “Best have your handkerchief ready, Watson,” he advised. “You may feel a sudden urge to sneeze.”
“Might what?” Watson asked, obediently drawing the article from his pocket. A door behind them opened, and Professor Moriarty’s bald head poked out. Watson swiftly covered his face with the large square of linen and did his best to produce a convincing “Achoo!” Holmes patted him on the back, saying, “Afghanistan,” in the same affected voice as Moriarty approached.
“Ah, good,” the professor said. “I’m sure Mr. Huxley won’t keep you waiting long.”
Watson made a production of rubbing his nose while Holmes snatched a magazine from a table and opened it, drawing Watson to one side and saying, “What do you think of this, Fernando?” until Moriarty had passed them by, following his wife and footman.
Mrs. Moriarty’s clear soprano voice rang out. “Oh, Mr. Clements! How delightful to meet you at last! And this must be the famous Frank Weatherly, the man with the golden touch. Everyone’s saying it.”
“Surely not everyone, Lady Bellenden,” a man’s voice responded.
Holmes murmured, “That’s a poor choice, using the name of her own street. Never leave a clue behind, Watson, not even when you expect no pursuit.”
“They’re behaving very boldly,” Watson said. “What the deuce are they up to?”
“I suspect she’s here to draw those men out of their office. We’ll know in a minute.”
They took seats with a partial view of the people clustering at the end of the hall in front of a pair of ornate doors. They picked up magazines to shield their faces, but no one paid them any attention beyond the one curious glance cast by Mrs. Moriarty.
As Moriarty joined the group, he was introduced to his own wife as Mr. Barrett, specialist in American investments. The two exchanged pleasantries, affecting to know nothing of one another. She, apparently, had come to discuss investment opportunities in Argentina, having fallen in love with the place from afar, as she put it. She batted her lashes, turning from one man to the other, visibly charming them. The boy stood mutely beside her.
A younger man who had been standing diffidently in the background now bowed his head, murmured something, and took himself off down a branching hall. The receptionist, no doubt, making his way back to his post by an alternate route.
“Would you care to step into my office, Lady Bellenden?” Moriarty said. “I could outline the opportunities we have in Argentina at this time.”
“No, no, no, Mr. Barrett!” She swatted at him playfully. “First, I insist on a grand tour. I want to know all about absolutely everything.” She laid a hand on an older gentleman’s arm. “I want you on my right, Mr. Clements, to give me the long view. The seasoned view. And you, Mr. Weatherly” — she turned gracefully to grasp the other man’s arm — “on my left to tell me how everything has changed completely.” She trilled a laugh. The men chuckled.
“I’m not sure what there is to see,” Clements said. “It’s only a set of offices.”
“Let’s follow that nice man who led me here,” Mrs. Moriarty said. “Is there a view of the street from the windows on that side? Might we find a cup of tea somewhere?” The boy tugged at her skirt, and she turned a questioning face to him. “Don’t you want to come and see the view, darling?”
He shook his head, pressing his lips together. He had undoubtedly been instructed not to open his mouth, for the good reason that the Moriartys’ footman had the thickest of Cockney accents.
“I’ve an idea,” Moriarty said, clapping his hands together. “How’d you like to look at a great big map of the Americas? Let’s see if we can’t locate Buenos Aires together.”
The boy beamed at him, his lips still tightly closed.
“Isn’t that lovely?” Mrs. Moriarty said. “Just the sort of personal service I was told to expect at Clements and Weatherly. Now, gentlemen — what about my tour?” She took two steps away from the double doors, drawing the partners with her willy-nilly. Moriarty watched them go, standing with one hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“En garde, Watson,” Holmes whispered, shifting in his chair to make himself less visible from the far end of the hall. Watson pulled himself to one side too, trying to look as if merely seeking a more comfortable position.
“Let’s give them a minute,” Holmes said, ruffling the pages of his magazine, every inch the supercilious toff.
The professor did not come back to his own office to show the boy a map. When Watson chanced another look, he found the hall quite empty. “You were right, Holmes,” he said. “They must have gone inside the partners’ office. What do you suppose they’re after?”
“There must be a safe in that inner sanctum. Why else bring a safe-cracker? They won’t be after money. Moriarty has simpler ways of gaining that useful commodity. Another bundle of incriminating letters, perhaps. That woman has quite a checkered past, Watson, and I can think of no one else for whom our professor would take such a risk.”
Holmes tapped a long finger on his knee, counting off some unspoken measure of time. Then he said, “Let’s have a look,” and rose to pad silently down the hall. Watson followed, desperately hoping the Asia & Africa man would stay away a while longer. What on earth could they say to explain themselves?
When they reached the intersection before the doors, Holmes paused, holding up one finger. Mrs. Moriarty’s dulcet tones could be heard, but indistinctly, at some distance. Holmes nodded, then reached out to grasp the handle and press it slowly down. He eased the door open and slipped inside with Watson, as ever, on his heels.
Inside the spacious office, in a corner lined with tall bookcases, they found Professor Moriarty kneeling beside the open door of a steel safe with his hands on his thighs, studying the contents.
“Crikey, Perfessor!” the footman exclaimed. “Lookit all that splosh!”
“We don’t want their money, Rolly,” the professor said. “We just want that book. Ah! Here it is.” He reached into the safe to extract a cloth-bound ledger. He swung the safe door shut, ignoring his footman’s disappointed groan, and got to his feet. Only then did he notice the intruders.
His gaze went first to Holmes, attractive in his colorful disguise. He frowned, puzzled, then shifted to Watson and grunted in recognition. “Watson! Blast it! What are you two doing here?”
“I might ask you the same question, Moriarty,” Holmes responded.
“It’s nothing to do with you.” Moriarty’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s your client? Not one of these scoundrels, I hope.”
“The only scoundrel I see is the one holding another man’s account book and pretending to be a stockbroker named Richard Barrett.”
“Now how could you possibly —” Moriarty cut himself off, rolling his eyes. “The wife. Angelina warned Mr. Barrett to make a clean breast, but no, he’s one of these old-fashioned young men who think wives are best kept in the dark.”
Watson chuckled. “Whence they invariably find their way out, in my observation.” He didn’t share Holmes’s competitive obsession with Professor Moriarty.
“And demand a full accounting,” Moriarty agreed. “Please assure Mrs. Barrett that her husband has done nothing worse than overindulge in salted snacks this past week. Or better, let him tell her himself after we report this afternoon. He’ll have to explain not taking up the new position here in any event.”
He took a few steps toward the door, as if they’d concluded a brief business meeting and could now take their mutual leave.
Holmes blocked his path. “I can’t let you walk out of here without an explanation.”
“Very well,” Moriarty said, “but it’ll have to be the short version. Angelina can’t keep the hounds at bay forever.”
Holmes raised a single eyebrow to signal his readiness to listen.
Moriarty said, “Mr. Clements was a legitimate banker with a sterling reputation until he decided to enter the modern era by expanding his investment division. Toward that end, he hired Frank Weatherly, a rising stock market wizard, who obscured the fact he had received his basic training from Oscar Teaberry.”
A smile curved on Holmes’s lips at that name. Watson remembered him too — an apple-shaped man with a hearty manner and a corrupt soul.
“You can guess the rest,” Moriarty said. “Weatherly has hollowed out a once-worthy financial institution. Worse, he hired poor Mr. Barrett to hold the empty bag while he and his colleague, Mr. Huxley —”
“Asia and Africa,” Watson put in.
Moriarty nodded. “A party to the scheme from the start, I believe. They’ve been defrauding investors right and left, though of course no one will know until it’s too late. This book contains the real figures they’ve been using to decide when it’s time to fold up their tents and steal away.” He held up the slender green volume.
“I see,” Holmes said. “You’ve committed the small fraud of misrepresentation in order to expose a larger one. A bold move, Professor.”
That wasn’t meant as a compliment, but Moriarty pretended to take it as one. “Barrett was caught on the horns of a tricky dilemma with his reputation at risk. Teaberry’s name raised the odds of chicanery so high that our little deception seemed unlikely to last long enough to be exposed.” He patted the account book. “This book may never make it into a court of law, but my possession of it will ensure that Weatherly and his gang repay what they’ve stolen and leave Clements Bank in peace.”
“They’ll only go play their game in another place,” Holmes asked.
“Then I’ll have more work to do, won’t I? I can’t see a way to put them in jail and also return their money to the innocent clients.”
Holmes scratched at his ruddy false beard, weighing Moriarty’s words. Before he could render a verdict, voices sounded outside the door. Mrs. Moriarty and the partners had returned.
Mr. Weatherly flung the doors wide, laughing over his shoulder as they toddled into the office in a jovial group. “I’m sure we’ve got a little splash of something to offer you, Lady Bellenden.” He managed two strides into the room before noticing its occupants.
All three of them stopped in their tracks, gaping blankly, especially at Holmes with his red wig and checked suit. Weatherly recovered first. “Barrett? What’s the meaning of this?” His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Moriarty’s prize. “What are you doing with that book? How did you get hold of it?”
“That isn’t Richard Barrett,” Holmes said. He’d evidently decided to expose Moriarty’s deception. Watson hadn’t made up his mind yet whether it was justified or not. Prior association, even with a crook like Teaberry, shouldn’t be enough to condemn a man out of hand. But Moriarty had been on the scene for a week and had a mathematician’s eye for financial discrepancies. If he said these men were engaged in fraud, they had to be stopped.
“Goodness, don’t you know your own people?” Mrs. Moriarty exclaimed. She strode briskly into the center of the room, once again drawing attention toward her brilliant costume and vibrant manner.
“Who is he, then, if he isn’t Mr. Barrett?” Clements asked. He moved toward his own desk with an air of seeking shelter.
“That man is none other than Professor Moriarty,” Holmes said. “You’ve heard of him, Mr. Weatherly, I should expect.”
Weatherly shrugged and shook his head, more interested in the unknown quantity of Holmes in disguise than in a man he’d rubbed shoulders with for the past week.
Holmes growled under his breath. “It’s part of his insidious genius to be completely unknown among the general public.”
Moriarty exchanged a dry look with his wife.
Weatherly said, “I want an explanation, not more riddles. Who are you, and what are you doing in this office?”
Holmes said, “That’s the man who chased your mentor, Oscar Teaberry, out of London with his tail between his legs.”
Now Weatherly’s eyes popped, but before he could fully focus on the professor, Mrs. Moriarty gave a little shriek, pointing a trembling finger at Holmes. “I know who he is! He’s that famous detective — Sherlock Holmes! He’s supposed to be incredibly clever at disguises!” She clapped her hands together as if eager for the next act to begin.
Both Weatherly and Clements rounded on Holmes, firing off overlapping rounds of questions. Mrs. Moriarty maneuvered around them to create a screen with her wide skirts, fluttering her expressive hands and gabbling feminine nonsense.
Watson stepped back from the fray. He watched in journalistic silence as Moriarty pressed the account book into his footman’s hands and murmured, “Take this straight home. Quickly!” Then the professor pushed into the scrum, blocking the view as his accomplice slipped out the open doors and jogged down the hall.
“Let’s have this out right here,” Moriarty said to no one, closing the doors with an air of finality.
They opened again almost immediately as another man entered, saying, “Billings told me I had a client for the Afghanistan railway caper. I thought we’d closed that one down.” He stopped in his tracks as the others had done and gaped at the chaos. His gaze swept from Holmes on one side and Mrs. Moriarty on the other, then landed on the man hired as their designated scapegoat. “Barrett, why the devil did you bring clients in here?”
“That’s not Richard Barrett,” Weatherly said. “It’s an imposter called Moriarty. He’s nabbed the account book from the safe somehow.”
“I have no book,” Moriarty said, displaying his empty hands. “Though in my judgment, you’re keeping far too much cash on hand.” He caught his wife’s eyes and tilted his head toward the door.
“The money!” Weatherly cried. The three businessmen wheeled together like a flock of birds, homing in on the safe in the corner, scolding one another about security and cash reserves while the Moriartys made a quiet exit.
“Come, Watson,” Holmes said. “I believe our work here is done.”
Watson had no idea what they’d accomplished, other than watching the Moriartys expose another vile financial fraud, but he was quite ready to depart. He wouldn’t mind a nice cool glass of stout. There were some excellent pubs tucked away in the banking district.
They had barely reached the waiting area before they were pushed aside by Weatherly and the other one, Mr. Asia and Africa, jogging toward the front entrance with pound notes bulging out of their pockets. They found the door blocked by Mrs. Moriarty, pacing back and forth, pretending to be in a state of acute anxiety, though in Watson’s professional opinion the woman hadn’t a nerve in her whole healthy frame.
She’d been nervously opening and closing her umbrella. On the approach of the two crooks, she pointed it straight at them with another shriek that made them jump back. She snapped it again, then twitched it away with a surprised look, as if she couldn’t think how she’d come to be holding the thing.
Professor Moriarty had been leaning against the counter, smiling at his wife’s performance while he spoke to the receptionist in a low voice. The footman was nowhere to be seen. When Weatherly and his accomplice stopped spluttering, he said, “I do have your book, gentlemen. No — not on me. It’s someplace safe. I’ll study it tonight and send you my terms in the morning at this address.”
“I’d advise you to be here to accept them,” Holmes said. “And you’d best return that money to the safe. I’ve no doubt the professor can assess the value of a heap of cash at a glance. One of the skills acquired in casinos, I believe. He’ll know if you come up short.”
Moriarty managed to turn a flash of surprise into a knowing glare. He now offered an elbow to his wife. “Shall we be off, my dear? I’m looking forward to having lunch at home for a change.”
They sauntered out the door. Holmes moved to follow them, saying, “Come, Watson. I know an excellent eatery only a few blocks away.”
As Watson crossed the threshold, he heard Weatherly say, “What just happened here? Who were those people?” They’d find out soon enough.
Holmes caught up with the professor and his wife in two strides of his long legs. “I’m letting you get away with it this time, Moriarty, since I suspect you’re right about the fraud. You do seem to have an intuitive advantage in that area.”
Moriarty smiled thinly. “I read the business journals. You can call that intuition if you like.”
Holmes mirrored the smile. “Nevertheless, know that I’ve got my eyes on you. You walk a very fine line, Professor; a very fine line indeed.”
That provoked a genuine laugh from Moriarty. “Any line, Holmes, however fine, must necessarily run perfectly straight ad infinitum.” He tipped his hat and escorted his wife down the curving marble stairs.