by Chris Dolley
Emmeline was right. I’d never considered Ida, or her father, as a suspect when...
I had it!
“What if the entire Edison story is a red herring?” I said. “Planted by T. Everett. If it wasn’t for T. Everett we’d never have heard of Edison. We’ve assumed from the moment T. brought it up that he’s right and Edison’s evil. But what if T. and Ida have a far simpler plan — to marry Ida off to Sir Henry? It’s not about Quarrywood. It’s about the title. And not wanting to wait for Sir Robert to pass it on.”
Emmeline was beside herself. “Please let me arrest her! She may resist.”
I was considering Emmeline’s request when I noticed Reeves peering intently over my shoulder.
“What is it, Reeves?” I asked, turning to follow his gaze.
“There are two riders approaching across the moor, sir. One appears to be a policeman.”
Twenty-Two
s soon as I pulled up the rope, the three of us beetled down to the main drive to meet the riders.
One was Tom, the other turned out to be Sergeant Stock whom Tom had been sent to Princetown to fetch. The sergeant was not a natural horseman. He didn’t so much dismount as half-slide, half-fall to the ground, and he looked a little pained in the billowy portions.
“I hear there’s been a murder,” said Sergeant Stock, rubbing said tender portions, as Tom led the horses off.
“Three actually,” I said. “Though, technically, I’m not sure if the law would count Pasco’s death as murder. What do you think, Reeves?”
“I fear legal opinion may regard the murder of an automaton as criminal damage, sir.”
“There we are, sergeant. Two murders and a rather nasty case of criminal damage.”
“Who be the other murder then?” said the sergeant.
“Ah.” I searched for a good way to answer, but soon realised there wasn’t one. “I’m afraid it was a colleague of yours, sergeant. Constable Brown.”
“Ho!” said the sergeant. “I thought something bad must have happened to him when he didn’t report back. What happened to him?”
“Selden,” I said. “We found the um ... we found the constable’s helmet and boots an hour ago.”
“Ho!” said the sergeant, stiffening his upper lip. “This be a bad business and no mistake. Did Selden eat Sir Robert too?”
I brought the sergeant up to speed viz poison darts, Pasco, ghosts and Lottie. I’m not sure how much sank in though as his eyes began to glaze over halfway through the cloven-footed business
“I know it’s baffling,” I said. “But these country house murders always are.”
The sergeant’s eyes brightened. “Country house murder, you say? I went on one of they detective courses at Scotland Yard. We did a whole afternoon on country house murders. I knows exactly what to do.”
“You do?” I said.
“I do and no mistake, gents, miss. Would’ee be so good as to fetch the butler so I can arrest him?”
“What?”
“It’s always the butler what done it in a country house murder. Inspector Savage told me himself.”
“When did you go on this course, sergeant?” I asked.
“Six years ago this June, sir.”
“I think things have moved on apace since then, sergeant. Modern butlers are a less bloodthirsty breed — or all the bad ones have been locked up. The butler as murderer is definitely old hat.”
“Be it?”
“Indeed, it be. More likely to be a mad scientist than a butler these days. There’s a definite vogue for mad scientists, don’t you think, Reeves?”
“There is somewhat of a fashion, sir, though I believe Scotland Yard’s current advice is to investigate each case on its merits and to keep an open mind.”
The sergeant rubbed his chin and looked perplexed. “Don’t like the sound of that. Are there any mad scientists nearby?”
“Two, I think. Dr Morrow’s one. What do we think about Stapleford?”
“Definitely,” said Emmeline. “He has a house full of suspicious robots and he builds giant steam-powered octopi.”
“Sounds mad to me, miss,” said the sergeant. “Where can I find him?”
I wasn’t sure about this. I’m all for bold moves, but there was an air of heavy-handedness about Sergeant Stock’s approach. One uses guile to catch a criminal mastermind, not brute force. And by the way he’d just whipped out his truncheon, I had the impression that brute force was Sergeant Stock’s forte.
“I don’t think you can arrest anyone for a country house murder without having a proper dénouement first,” I said. “It’s just not done.”
“A what-ment, sir?” said the sergeant.
“Dénouement. It’s the bit where the detective invites all the suspects into the drawing room and spends an hour pointing the finger at people and explaining who did what, how, and why.”
“Don’t like the sound of that either,” said the sergeant. “I be not one for public speaking.”
“You wouldn’t have to,” I said. “I’d do the talking for you. I’m a bit of a consulting detective, don’t you know? You’d be there to do the arresting at the end. They usually try to make a run for it.”
“Ho!” said the sergeant. “That sounds more like it! When we be having this dénouement?”
“Soon,” I said. “I need to collect a little more evidence first. Dénouements have to be done just so or the judge throws out all the evidence as inadmissible.”
“May I suggest, sergeant,” said Reeves. “That while Mr Baskerville-Smythe is collecting evidence in the country house murder of Sir Robert, that you concentrate on the apprehension of Mr Selden?”
The sergeant gave his chin another rub. “You sure it be not too much trouble for you, Mr Baskerville-Smythe?”
“No trouble whatsoever, sergeant.”
“Then that be settled, sir.”
~
I thought that went well. It’s often a difficult relationship between the constabulary and the consulting detective.
Sergeant Stock left soon after — heading for the village of Grimdark in the back of Tom’s cart. He’d decided against riding across the moor to Princetown.
“I be not crossing that moor again by horse,” he’d told us. “I’ll wade across the Angst if I haves to. Once I reach Grimdark, I’ll telegram the prison for reinforcements. I’ll have a dozen warders here by sunset. Mark my words, Selden won’t be on the loose for long.”
It started to rain so Emmeline, Reeves and I retired to the Hall, which was positively buzzing. Lady Julia had the servants running around preparing the Hall for mourning — covering every mirror in black crepe, tying black ribbons to every chair leg, and making a large yew wreath draped with black ribbons for the front door.
“Since my nephew appears incapable of honouring his family obligations, I suppose I must arrange it all,” she’d told Berrymore, before promptly delegating all the arranging to him.
We kept out of everyone’s way and headed up the servants’ staircase to my room. I’d had an idea, and felt the need to give it an airing.
“As I see it,” I said, hands behind back and doing a little pacing between the chimney breast and the window. “Finding this Lottie has to be our priority. If she killed Sir Robert, and the evidence appears to point that way, then she knows who ordered her to do it. Remember what happened to Pasco. As soon as he’d played his part, that was it. Biff! And a good deal of unpleasantness in the turbine area. So why is Lottie still alive? Is it because she’s skittish and hoofs it into the mire every time anyone comes near? Or is her job not finished?”
I could see that Emmeline was impressed. “There’s someone else she’s been ordered to kill! I bet it’s Henry.”
“What do you think, Reeves?” I asked.
“I find your reasoning sound, sir, though, I doubt she is the intended instrument for a second murder.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because she no longer has the blowpipe, sir. One would thin
k that if two murders had been planned Miss Lottie would have been furnished with a blowpipe and two darts. One certainly wouldn’t expect that, after the success of the first murder, that the blowpipe would have been discarded.”
“Perhaps she got cold feet?” said Emmeline. “Or realised it was wrong and threw away the blowpipe.”
I liked the sound of that. “In which case the murderer will definitely be after her. We have to find her first.”
But how? I did some more pacing while Reeves mixed me a drink.
“We know she lives at the hut circles,” said Emmeline. “Couldn’t we hide nearby and wait for her to arrive?”
I couldn’t see us approaching anywhere near the hut circle without being spotted by the other feral automata. And they’d certainly warn Lottie.
“Bait is what we need,” I said. “Something that would make Lottie come to us.”
“A new dress?” said Emmeline. “That black one she has must be caked in mud around the hems.”
“No, not a new dress, new feet!” I said, spilling my drink in the excitement. “We’ll leave a note for her on the mire gate. ‘Dear Lottie, dashed sorry to hear about the cloven feet. We can get them removed and your old feet put back on. Call at the Hall at your earliest convenience. Ask for Roderick.’”
“That’s perfect, Reggie!” said Emmeline.
“It’s using the psychology of the individual, Emmie. Find out what Lottie needs the most and offer to provide it,” I said.
I thought Reeves would be pleased — being very big on the p. of the i. — but I could tell by his look that he had an objection. I braced myself for it. “What is it, Reeves?”
“I fear it unlikely that Miss Lottie can read, sir. If you remember—”
I did remember. “Do you have a better suggestion, Reeves?” I said, a trifle nettled.
“As it happens, sir, there is something that we know Miss Lottie needs even more than new feet, and that she will come to the Hall for tonight.”
“What?” I was agog.
“Steam, sir.”
I put my drink down. The man was without peer.
“Do you really think she’d risk coming back here after the murder?” said Emmeline.
“Where else would she go, miss? Without steam she will cease to function.”
“Stapleford has a steam outlet,” said Emmeline.
“The lack of cloven footprints in the mire path at High Dudgeon would indicate she doesn’t frequent Stapleford’s boiler room, miss.”
“The feral automata did say they avoided Stapleford,” I said. “And the quarry too.”
“Indeed, sir. I would suggest we hide in the old stable block tonight and await Miss Lottie’s arrival.”
~
I downed my drink and we shot off to the old stable block post-haste. Emmeline and I looked for a suitable spot to hide later while Reeves availed himself of the steam outlet pipe. The moment he began to unbutton his shirt, I had to look away. Some things are private. I’d once had to help Stiffy Trussington-Thripp connect an unconscious Reeves to a steam hose and it hadn’t been a pleasant experience for any of us.
Emmeline and I climbed a ladder into the loft. There was a good deal of loose hay piled up. And the loft only extended over half the stable block, so we had a pretty good view of the floor below. All in all, an excellent place to hide for a couple of hours.
“We’ll have to rearrange the hay a little if we’re not going to be seen,” said Emmeline.
“We could always lie down and cover ourselves with it,” I said.
“What are you suggesting, Mr Worcester?” said Emmeline, putting on her Lady Julia voice.
“Camouflage, Miss Dreadnought. My motives are pure.”
“Not too pure, I hope.”
I coughed, Reeves being otherwise engaged.
~
Everything was in place. Emmeline, Reeves and I were to meet by the back door just before eight. We’d use the servants’ staircase to avoid the others, and I’d have a word with Henry beforehand to explain our impending absence from the dinner table. He’d tell the others that Emmeline and I were poorly, and had retired to our rooms to read improving books.
As plans went, this one was foolproof, and Reeves had barely a hand in it!
The first crack in the plan came when Henry suggested he came along too. As head of the household he felt it was only right. If anyone was going to beard his father’s killer it should be him. I could see the hayloft giving way under the weight of onlookers. If Henry came along, Ida would follow. Which meant her father as well, which, in turn, would pique the interest of the other dinner guests and they’d all down forks and traipse out to the stable block to see what all the fuss was about.
A firm hand was required.
“It’s possible the murderer — the chap who gave Lottie the blowpipe and ordered her to do the deed — will be present at the dinner table tonight,” I said. “We can’t let them know anything is afoot. And three of us absent from the dinner table would do just that.”
Henry reluctantly agreed.
The second crack in the plan came just as we were about to set out. Reeves and I were loitering by the back door, checking our pocket watches and muttering. Well, I was muttering. Reeves doesn’t mutter. He disapproves of it strongly.
“Perhaps I should attempt to locate Miss Emmeline, sir?” he said as I added pacing to the muttering.
Off he went. And back he came five minutes later with disturbing news.
“Miss Emmeline is taking dinner, sir.”
“What?”
“Dinner, sir. She is seated next to Lady Julia.”
I began to harbour grave doubts about my ears. “Did you say Emmeline’s in the dining room ... with Lady Julia?”
“With everyone, sir. She is seated between Lady Julia and Mr Stapleford. She appears somewhat disquieted, sir.”
I gasped. “Do they have a gun on her?
“Not that I observed, sir.”
I was baffled. Emmeline wouldn’t miss a sleuthing engagement. “Has she left a note, Reeves? Slipped it under my door perhaps?”
“No, sir. She didn’t leave a note in her room either.”
Well this was rummy. “What do you make of it, Reeves? Is she in danger?”
“I find it hard to believe that anyone would attempt anything untoward in a room full of witnesses, sir.”
The more I thought about it, the more I thought that this had to be some attempt to divert us from our apprehension of Lottie.
“We must stick with our plan, Reeves. Questioning Lottie is the priority.”
~
Reeves and I hid in the hayloft. I chose a spot by the ladder where I could lie down and see the steam hose. Reeves sat on a bale out of sight at the back, adamant that lying down played havoc with his gyroscopes, and that hay and a pressed suit did not mix. I had more progressive views on hay and loftwear and covered myself with the stuff.
An age passed. Silas, the under gardener with all the pruning and mowing attachments, was there, keeping the boiler well-fired. Every now and then he’d motor over to the furnace carrying a log, toss it in, and give the fire a good riddle. I assumed he must have topped himself up earlier, though I couldn’t see where his belly button was — not having an obvious belly.
Then the door creaked open and I froze, not daring to breathe as I waited for the figure to come into view.
It wasn’t Lottie. It was one of the other feral automata. He connected himself up to the steam hose and I looked away.
Another age passed. This time I didn’t dare move in case he spotted me. It was dark and I was covered in hay, but there was some light coming from the furnace, and I was worried that any rustling sound might carry. The only other sound was the occasional crackle from the furnace and the gentle hiss of the steam hose.
Eventually he left and I took the opportunity to have a little shuffle and scratch the odd itch. I’d begun to harbour doubts that I was alone in the hay — suspecting that half
of Devonshire’s beetles were nestling up beside me.
Then the door opened again, accompanied this time by a swishing sound, and the unmistakable silhouette of Lottie in her long black dress.
Twenty-Three
plan had been to wait until Lottie had connected herself to the steam hose before springing from our hiding place and barring the door. But that involved watching Lottie unfasten her dress somewhat, a task which Emmeline was to have undertaken. I decided to avert my eyes and count to one hundred instead.
On one hundred and one, I sprang like a well-dressed tiger and flew down the ladder.
Lottie screamed.
“Don’t be alarmed,” I said, as she struggled to disconnect herself from the steam hose.
“We mean you no harm, Miss Lottie,” said Reeves appearing by the top of the ladder. ”Mr Baskerville-Smythe desires to ask you a few questions. That is all.”
“That’s right,” I said. “It won’t take long then you’re free to go.”
Lottie succeeded in freeing herself from the hose and turned to face me. “I’m not going to Quarrywood! I’ve seen what you did to Annie. I’ll die before you turn me into a giant octopus!”
“We wouldn’t dream of turning anyone into a giant octopus, would we, Reeves?”
“No, sir.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “Stand aside and let me pass ... or ... or I’ll open the furnace and burn this place down.”
This was not going as well as I’d hoped.
“Do that thing with your ears, Reeves.”
“No, sir.”
I have to say I was disappointed in Reeves’ lack of feudal spirit. Would Watson have refused Holmes’ request to blow steam from his nose? I think not.
“No need for fires, Lottie,” I said. “Reeves here is an automaton too, and I’ve never turned him into any kind of octopus — not even a small one — have I, Reeves?”
“No, sir. We are guests at the Hall, miss. We have no connection to Quarrywood, and desire only information as to what occurred in the vicinity of the mire gate yesterday evening.”
That seemed to calm her down a little.
“What’s that got to do with me?” she asked.
