Page 10 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
Moriarty’s smile conveyed an unjaded enjoyment, as if it still pleased him to be reminded that he’d reached a high-and-mighty place in life. There was an openness to his expression that hinted at an unspoiled nature and a generosity of spirit.
Charlotte once again felt that ominous tremor inside her chest. How did this man, whose soul must be pockmarked by cruelty and a singular thirst for power, manage such a fluent yet subtle portrayal of nobility of character?
Beside him, Stephen Marbleton glanced about, as if he’d never before seen the interior of 18 Upper Baker Street. What role was he playing today, he who had been forced to reunite with Moriarty, his natural father, after a lifetime fleeing that very fate?
He didn’t look delighted or comfortable. He looked like a young man accompanying his elder out of obligation, rather than enthusiasm. And that was perhaps the correct balance to strike—Moriarty would not believe him to be truly content, but neither would he tolerate an open display of misery.
In the parlor, after stoking the fire in the grate, Charlotte engaged in her usual tea-making ritual. Moriarty observed her closely, as if there were something to be gleaned from the way she warmed the teapot and measured tea leaves to steep. Mr. Marbleton continued his imitation of a youngster brought along on an errand the nature of which was a little opaque to him. He regarded Charlotte only briefly and spent more time looking around at the books on the shelves and the bric-a-brac on the mantelpiece.
His presence, as much as Moriarty’s, boded ill. He had been deep in their confidence, especially with regard to the ball at Château Vaudrieu. If a confession had been compelled from him, then even a Maxim gun would not be enough to save everyone.
Where were Mrs. Watson and Livia? Where was Bernadine? And the carriage that should be pulling up to the back of number 18—was it, too, under Moriarty’s control now?
But if he had come to seal her fate, even if he had enough self-control not to display any smugness, shouldn’t she at least detect some regret on Mr. Marbleton’s part?
She held the teapot steady and poured for everyone, filling each cup to just the right level. If they had not been compromised, then she must not betray any signs of guilt or undue agitation. And however desperate she was to find out whether Livia, Bernadine, and Mrs. Watson remained safe, she must act unconcerned.
“I hope your crossing was smooth, gentlemen?” she murmured.
Moriarty raised a brow. “Our crossing?”
“Yes, you crossed the Channel very recently, I take it. Possibly today?”
The two men stared at Charlotte, then down at themselves, as if searching for what clues they might have unknowingly displayed on their persons.
They did not glance at each other.
“How did you come to know of our crossing, Miss Holmes?” asked Stephen Marbleton. He seemed simply another first-time client taken aback by Sherlock Holmes’s deductive prowess, marvel and disbelief writ across his countenance.
She put on a small, satisfied smile. “You were looking about the room just now, sir. Your gaze paused at the grandfather clock. After a moment of reflection, you took out your pocket watch, glanced at the clock again, and changed the time on the watch. Not a minor adjustment, for it required several turns of the crown, which implied that the difference between the time on your watch and the time on my clock was close to an hour, if not more.
“You have a fine timepiece, one I expect to be accurate. And since you didn’t wind it, but only changed the time, this large discrepancy is best explained by rapid travel. You didn’t travel alone, or you would have been obliged to match your watch to local times much sooner. Since you came with Mr. Baxter, it stands to reason that the two of you journeyed together. Only now, having arrived at your destination, were you reminded that you hadn’t adjusted the time yet—and proceeded to do so.”
Mr. Marbleton blinked. “That is remarkable reasoning.”
Moriarty shook his head. “Astounding. Absolutely astounding.”
Unlike Mr. Marbleton, who gave off an air of slight distraction, as if he had other things on his mind, Moriarty was fully present. And he regarded Charlotte with such genuine amazement that for a moment she felt as she had as a child, when her father cupped her face in his palms, called her his lovely poppet, and told her that she was the most extraordinary girl he had ever met.
She adjusted the cuffs of her sleeves and proceeded to bask, indeed preen, in Moriarty’s attention. “May I also venture that you gentlemen didn’t come from Paris, which has only a ten-minute time difference with London, but from somewhere further afield?”
Mr. Marbleton bowed his head, as if wary of giving unauthorized answers, but Moriarty said, “Indeed, we began our journey further east. What magnificent logic you possess, Miss Holmes.”
He gave no geographic specifics, but Charlotte smiled broadly, as if his compliment was all that she wanted. “One does pick up a trick or two, serving as Sherlock Holmes’s oracle. Are you familiar with my brother’s condition, by any chance, Messieurs Baxter?”
“Yes, we have heard of his unfortunate state of health and have nothing but the most profound wishes for his recovery. But in the meanwhile, we shall be happy to work with you, Miss Holmes.”
Such an easy sincerity to his words, too. And he meant it: No pretenses necessary. He was fully aware that Sherlock Holmes was a woman and fully accepting of that fact.
She handed around plates of baked goods. Mr. Marbleton declined everything but Moriarty accepted an éclair and ate it with obvious appreciation.
Seeing others enjoy their food usually buoyed Charlotte’s own appetite. Moriarty’s relish, however, did not have the same effect on her. She had seen his true face, cold and pitiless. Her brother’s life was in danger because of him. And here was Mr. Marbleton, who, despite his effort to appear normal, obviously felt suffocated.
Should Moriarty discount everything else Charlotte might know about him, he must still take into consideration that Lady Ingram had publicly declared him a murderer, the culprit in the Stern Hollow affair. He knew Charlotte would be on guard. Why then was he taking the trouble to appear blameless?
Did he think that by calling himself Mr. Baxter she wouldn’t know who he was?
She looked away from the refreshments on the tea table without making a selection. There was, however, nowhere else for her gaze to settle except on Moriarty’s intelligent and empathetic face.
