The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4)

by Chris Dolley

  “Don’t be so hard on the boy, Julia,” said Sir Robert. “He is an orphan.”

  “And I was hit by a train,” I added, deciding to play the sympathy card. “A big one.”

  “You don’t look like you’ve been hit by a train,” said Lady Julia. “You don’t even have a limp. And why were we told you were dead?”

  All good questions. I was sure I’d rehearsed an answer, but there was something of the Medusa in Lady Julia that turned all my little grey cells to stone.

  “If I may be of assistance, your lord and ladyship,” said Reeves, stepping forward.

  “Who’s that with you?” Lady Julia asked me. “The train driver?”

  Reeves coughed. “I’m Mr Baskerville-Smythe’s personal gentleman, milady. My master has little recollection of the train crash, or the events that followed, as he was unconscious for more than a week. One of his fellow passengers was misidentified as Mister Roderick by the investigating authorities, and it was his demise that was reported. Our Mister Roderick was thrown clear when the train hit the stagecoach and, fortuitously, landed on his head — thus escaping further physical damage.”

  “H’m,” said Lady Julia. She didn’t look entirely convinced, but she looked mildly swayed.

  “It’s true,” I said. “It took me months to remember who I was.”

  “So why didn’t you write when you did remember?”

  “Mister Roderick was destitute after the crash, milady. He had no identity, no home, and no resources. So he travelled inland to seek his fortune. By the time he regained his memory, he was hundreds of miles from the nearest telegraphic station.”

  “Did you find your fortune?” asked Sir Robert.

  “Rather! I have five diamond mines. I’m pretty big in amethysts too. So, don’t worry, I’m not here to touch you for a few quid.”

  “Why are you here?” asked Lady Julia.

  “To see the family seat. Do a spot of sightseeing before I toddle off back to South America. Not knowing about one’s roots can cause a big hole in a chap’s life.”

  “H’m,” said Lady Julia. I’m not an expert on hums, but I felt this to be a warmer hum than the previous one.

  “I think he may be Roderick, Julia,” said Sir Robert. “Cuthbert was always a bit odd. And you can’t turn the boy away on a night like this. Welcome to Baskerville Hall, my boy. Berrymore will show you to your room. We dine at eight.”

  ~

  “Is Miss Dreadnought on the premises, Berrymore?” I asked casually when we reached the door to my room.

  “I believe she’s in the library, sir.”

  “With my cousin?”

  “Mister Henry is at the studio, sir.”

  My heart soared. Emmeline was not with Henry! And here was my chance to see her before dinner and explain my unexpected arrival ... and change of name.

  I left Reeves unpacking and oiled down the stairs in search of the library. It took me three doors to find it. But where was Emmeline? There was a girl reading in a high-backed chair by the window, but it wasn’t her.

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry to disturb and all that, but I was told Miss Dreadnought was in here. Have you seen her?”

  “I am Miss Dreadnought.”

  “Really?” I thought I’d met all the Dreadnoughts, but I’d never clapped eyes on this one. “Roderick Baskerville-Smythe,” I said, adding a deferential bow. “Is your sister about? Emmeline, that is.”

  “I am Emmeline, Mr Baskerville-Smythe.”

  If she’d produced a wet halibut and slapped me across the face with it, I couldn’t have been more shocked. If you recall it was only last month that I’d seen H.G. Wells turn into his sister before my very eyes! Was it happening again? That ‘changing the timeline’ thingy. Reeves said the time machine was safely back in the future, but what if someone had brought it back and rewritten history again?

  “Are you feeling unwell, Mr Baskerville-Smythe?” this new Emmeline asked.

  “What? No, I’ve just had a long day. I’ve only just arrived from South America. Um ... do you know H.G. Wells?” It was worth a shot. The last time the time machine had gone missing, it had been his aunt who’d stolen it.

  “I’ve heard of him. I prefer Jules Verne though. That’s who I’m reading now.” She showed me her book, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.

  “Does Jules Verne have a time machine?” I asked.

  “Not that I’ve read.”

  “You haven’t seen a strange automobile with a giant parasol on the back around here, have you?”

  “No. Though there might be one at the studio. There’s all sorts of unusual props there.”

  “Ah. And the studio would be ... where?”

  “It’s at the old quarry. I’m sure Henry or Sir Robert will take you there tomorrow. They’re besotted with the place.”

  “Right ho,” I said. “I’ll be beetling off then. Enjoy your book.”

  I positively flew out of the room, swooshed up the stairs two at a time, and burst through the door to my room. If anyone could put the timeline back together, Reeves was the man. His steam-powered brain was one of the wonders of the modern world.

  “Reeves!” I cried, in between ragged breaths. “It’s happening again. The timeline. Emmie’s not Emmie any more. She’s changed.”

  “Most distressing, sir,” said that calm rock of logic as he folded the Worcester socks. “In what way has Miss Emmeline changed?”

  “In every way! She says she’s Emmie, but she doesn’t look anything like her. She’s blonde. And shorter. And fuller in the face.”

  “Did she recognise you, sir?”

  “No! She didn’t know me from Adam. Have you noticed anything strange, Reeves? Conflicting memories of historical events? An extra wife for Henry VIII perhaps?”

  “I have not, sir. Is it possible that the young lady is engaging in a practical joke and is pretending to be Miss Emmeline?”

  “Why ever would she do that?”

  “Unfathomable is the way of young ladies, sir. Perchance Miss Emmeline observed your arrival and persuaded an acquaintance to play a prank upon you.”

  “Emmie wouldn’t do that.”

  “Given the choice between a young lady engaging in a merry jape and the timeline being changed, I think that I, like William of Ockham, would err on the side of the simple explanation, sir.”

  “I’m not sure where William of Ockham fits into all this, Reeves, but if he’d read as much detective fiction as I have, he’d know the simplest solution is invariably wrong. It’s always the most complex solution that turns out to be the true one.”

  “Works of fiction, sir, are works of entertainment, ergo the popularity of the more complex solution. Real life favours the mundane.”

  I felt like that chap in the book. I forget its name, but no one believed him. He spent two hundred pages trying to convince everyone that someone was trying to murder him. All his friends and family thought he was touched. Until they found him nailed to the gazebo. I can tell you they all felt pretty silly then.

  “You’ll not find me nailed to a gazebo, Reeves.”

  “Sir?”

  “Put down that sock, Reeves, and follow me. I’ll show you I’m right.”

  I returned to the library a little more sedately than I’d left. Reeves has his standards, and ‘running whilst indoors’ was one of his particular dislikes.

  “Prepare yourself for a shock, Reeves,” I said as I grasped the library door handle.

  It would have taken a shoal of wet halibut across the mazard to come close to the shock I experienced when opening that door.

  It wasn’t Emmeline sitting in the chair by the window. Or her blonde replacement.

  It was ... an orang-utan!

  Three

  mmie!” I cried, rushing over. “What’s happened? It’s me — Reggie. Can you speak?”

  I stared into the orang-utan’s eyes trying to find some glimpse of Emmeline. Surely she had to be in there somewhere!

  The ape drew
back a little and gave me a look that showed neither love nor recognition. If anything it verged on the supercilious.

  Ever since reading The Murders in the Rue Morgue I’d had a fascination with orang-utans. But never had I expected my fiancée to turn into one!

  “This is worse than I thought, Reeves. She’s regressed. Someone must have taken the time machine back thousands of years!”

  “William of Ockham, sir—”

  “Reeves!” I interrupted. “Please stop this obsession with William of Ockham. The man wouldn’t last five minutes at Scotland Yard. And having one’s fiancé turned into an ape is as far removed from mundane as it is possible to achieve!”

  It is a characteristic of the Worcester family to find silver linings in the direst of situations. So it was on this occasion. Given Emmeline’s new station, her family might decide that R Worcester esq. was not such a bad match after all.

  But could I bring myself to marry an orang-utan?

  And if I didn’t, would I be sued for breach of promise!

  It was at that moment that Emmeline — or Cheetah or whatever name she was going under at that instance — reached out and grabbed my hand.

  “She remembers me, Reeves!”

  And she had such a firm grip. And such leathery hands.

  “I very much doubt, sir, that—”

  “It’s no good, Reeves. I can’t back out now. A promise is a promise. In sickness and in ... change of species, but ... I don’t want to live in an apiary!”

  “That’s bees, sir.”

  “What’s bees?”

  “That live in apiaries, sir.”

  “Do they? Where do apes live?”

  “I believe Borneo is very popular, sir.”

  “I can’t live in Borneo,” I wailed.

  “I very much doubt that you will have to, sir. I believe this orang-utan goes by the name of Lupin.”

  “Lupin?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr Berrymore told me that Mister Henry had formed an attachment to this animal whilst serving in South Africa. He purchased him from a fellow officer and brought him back to England where he now has the run of the house. Mr Berrymore is of the opinion that Lupin is somewhat cunning and unpredictable, and should be avoided if at all possible.”

  “Ah,” I said, snatching my hand away and stepping back. “Not Emmeline then?”

  “No, sir.”

  I waited for William of Ockham to make an entrance, but Reeves — wisely, I thought — chose restraint.

  ~

  We backed out of the room, keeping a steady eye on Lupin, who was keeping an even steadier eye upon us. The more I looked upon his face, the more convinced I became that Berrymore had it right. There was a devious intelligence behind Lupin’s eyes. He looked like the kind of orang-utan who’d always have an alibi — having been playing cards at the time in a tree of ill-repute.

  My knees trembled all the way to the hallway and didn’t stop until we’d closed the library door.

  “Eep!” A strange squeak sounded out of nowhere.

  I swivelled round — looked hither, then thither — but saw nothing.

  “What on earth was that, Reeves?”

  “I believe it originated from the landing, sir.”

  I couldn’t see anyone on the landing.

  “Psst!”

  “Are you sure it’s not you, Reeves? Is your pressure in need of regulation?”

  “I believe the hiss to have also originated from the landing, sir.”

  “You don’t think it’s a snake, do you? Henry didn’t bring a menagerie back from South Africa, did he?”

  “One hopes not, sir.”

  “Maybe a Boer Constrictor, what?”

  I waited for an appreciative comment — a quarter inch upward curl to the Reeves’ lips, perhaps — but was rewarded with nothing.

  “That was a joke, Reeves.”

  “So I feared, sir.”

  “Psst!”

  There it was again, louder this time.

  “I believe someone on the landing is attempting to attract your attention, sir.”

  I ankled up the stairs and onto the landing, keeping a wary eye out for snakes.

  “What ho?” I said. “Anyone there?”

  Emmeline — the real Emmeline — darted out from around a corner. My heart swelled, but ... she looked worried.

  “Ssh!” she hissed. “Quick, follow me. Lady Julia will call the police if she sees you!”

  I bounced after Emmie, following her into a corridor off the main landing.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Lady Julia’s already given me the third degree.”

  “And you’re still alive?”

  “Veritably resurrected. Oh, and I’m not Reggie. I’m Roderick Baskerville-Smythe, Sir Robert’s nephew from South America. Long story. Lots of trains.”

  “And I’m not Emmeline. I’m Lily Fossett. No trains though. But what are you doing here? You’re not on a case are you?”

  “No, I’m here because you said you’d write every day, and I haven’t received a single letter. I thought you’d been eaten by bears!”

  “But I have written every day!” She paused. I could see her perfectly formed little grey cells positively whirring. “Lady Julia!” she exclaimed. “She must have told the servants to look out for any letter addressed to you, and hand them over to her. I bet she burned them. They’ll be ashes in her grate.”

  “Wait, so who’s the blonde girl who calls herself Emmeline?”

  “That’s the real Lily. We swapped places. You’ve met her?”

  “Ten minutes ago. Why have you swapped places?”

  “So I can avoid Henry without having it reported back to mother. I thought Lady Julia might send her daily reports.”

  “And Lily doesn’t mind all this subterfuge?”

  “Not at all. She’s an old friend and ... did you know that Henry’s father is a moving picture producer?”

  “No.”

  “Well that was the clincher. Lily’s always wanted to be an actress, but her family won’t allow her on the stage. So when I told her we’d be staying at Baskerville Hall she jumped at the chance to swap places. Apparently this is the home of Quarrywood — the biggest moving picture studio in England.”

  “Is it?” I’d seen the odd moving picture show at the theatre, but never thought to enquire where they were made.

  “So I told mother that I simply had to have a companion if I were to spend two weeks at Baskerville Hall or I’d raise the barricades in my bedroom again.”

  “So your mother swung the invite for Lily?”

  “Exactly. Lily’s been having a great time. Henry’s given her a part in his new film. He’s in moving pictures now too. Sir Robert’s made him a director. And prepare yourself for dinner tonight because moving pictures is all anyone ever talks about. One of the other house guests is a producer from America, and wait ’til you see Dr Morrow — he’s a mad scientist creating all kinds of prometheans for Quarrywood.”

  I made a mental note to order a new edition of Who’s Who. None of this moving picture business had got a mention in my old edition.

  “Isn’t there a slight flaw in your cunning plan?” I asked.

  “What?” said Emmeline looking concerned.

  “I’m thinking about what happens in two weeks time when you and Lily swap back. Won’t Henry be somewhat peeved to find his leading lady and love interest is someone else. Not to mention your mother walking past a theatre and seeing the name Emmeline Dreadnought written in lights above the door.”

  Emmeline smiled. “That will not be a problem. No one in moving pictures uses their real name. And as for Henry’s love interest, no one stands a chance with Ida Spurgeon around.”

  I wondered if Henry had brought a pet fish back with him from South Africa.

  “Ida Spurgeon?”

  “She’s the daughter of T. Everett Spurgeon, the American moving picture producer I told you about. She doesn’t let anyone else get a look in with Henry. Lily s
ays Ida deliberately tripped her during one of her scenes this morning, and then complained to Henry how clumsy Lily was!”

  “What’s Henry like?” I asked nonchalantly.

  “He’s quite sweet really ... but he’d never solve a murder.”

  I positively glowed. Say what one will about the modern woman, one can’t fault their priorities.

  A cough came from the landing.

  “Hello, Reeves,” said Emmeline.

  “Good evening, miss,” said Reeves, appearing from around the corner. “I think it may be judicious to select an alternative venue for this conversation as people will be dressing for dinner soon.”

  “There’s bags of time yet, Reeves,” said Emmeline. “And most of the rooms in this wing are empty. I think that’s why they put me here — to keep me out of the way. Are you pretending to be South American too, Reeves?”

  “No, miss.”

  “I think you should. Don’t you, Reggie?”

  I kept quiet. ‘Never antagonise the man who is about to lay out one’s clothes for dinner’ is a family motto.

  “And we’ll have to give you an interesting past,” said Emmeline. “I know! You’re an Argentinean tango instructor fallen upon hard times.”

  “I think not, miss.”

  Emmeline did not appear to be listening. “We can’t call you Reeves either. How about Reevero? Reevero Gaucho — that’s a better name.”

  I decided to intervene before Reeves popped a rivet.

  “You’ll never guess who I met in the library just now,” I said. “An orang-utan!”

  As I had hoped, an orang-utan in a library trumped a cornered valet every time.

  “Lupin!” said Emmeline. “What do you think of him? Did he look at you as though he was working out the best way to stuff your body up a chimney?”

  “I’d say he’d already worked that out and was perfecting his alibi. Is it true he has the run of the house?”

  “Completely. Some evenings he even dines with us! Henry dotes upon him.”

  The thought of dining with Lady Julia and Lupin brought a momentary tremble to the Worcester knees.

  “The thing is,” said Emmeline, suddenly looking a little serious “It’s not just Lupin. There’s something ... off about this place. I can’t put my finger on what. I just ... can’t shake this feeling that something bad is about to happen. You do know the family’s cursed?”