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

by Chris Dolley

  Within seconds we were on the floor and rolling under the table. And rolling back out again. Above us, people pushed and shouted, tripped and jumped out of the way. I only saw snatches of what happened next, my vision being somewhat impaired by all the rolling and grappling, but it would appear that, somehow, Roderick managed to break free in all the confusion, and made a run for the open window. But as he attempted a full length dive, he found the window considerably less open than it had been a second earlier — Emmeline having begun to slam it shut.

  The unfortunate Roderick was caught amidships, and winded somewhat as he hung there — beached — half in, half out the window.

  Stout arms — none of which belonged to Emmeline I hasten to add — fastened around the struggling Roderick’s legs and hauled him in.

  “Allow me, miss,” said Sergeant Stock, leaning over to fetch Roderick a juicy one with his truncheon.

  The next thing I saw was Lady Julia standing over me with a vase which proved to contain considerably more water than one would think possible. Lupin squawked and bounced off, leaving a soaked Reginald to drip on the Axminster.

  “You may be an inspector,” said Lady Julia. “But you are still an idiot.”

  I watched Roderick being led away then dashed upstairs to change out of my wet clothes.

  As denouements went I thought it a pretty good one. A bit of a wobble in the middle act, but it finished strongly and had the audience on their feet.

  Twenty-Nine

  dry and refortified by a glass of the restorative I went looking for Reeves. It took me a while, but I eventually tracked him down on the front lawn.

  “Why didn’t you tell me beforehand?” I asked.

  “I tried, sir.”

  “You could have said something when you oiled in with the early morning oolong. I was all ears then.”

  “I did not know at that juncture, sir. I didn’t discover Witheridge’s true identity until later that morning when the idea that the ‘Cyrillic’ writing on his ‘tattoo’ might be a mirror image presented itself to me. I made a sketch of the tattoo from memory and located a suitable mirror to observe the result. That’s when the words ‘Buenos Aires and District Railway Company’ sprang out at me.”

  “Bit of a shock I should imagine.”

  “Indeed, sir. The fact that Roderick Baskerville-Smythe had travelled halfway around the world to be with his family but, instead of revealing himself, had assumed a false identity, led me to believe that his motives were decidedly suspect. According to the other servants, Witheridge exhibited no fondness for the family. Babbacombe went so far as to suggest that he held the family in contempt.”

  I tut-tutted. Where was the feudal spirit these days?

  “I had considered the possibility, sir, that, as a réanimé, changing his name and taking employment as a servant might have been the only way he could get close to his family. But his lack of fondness removed the possibility that his subterfuge was in any way related to a desire to be close to the bosom of his forebears.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what Reeves had said, but I knew it had to be the business.

  “One can also imagine, sir, the considerable shock that your arrival on the premises would have engendered. I do not believe it a coincidence that the ghost appeared the very day you arrived. I believe Mister Roderick felt his hand forced.”

  “You don’t mean... Do you think I brought about Sir Robert’s murder?”

  “No, sir. You may have brought it forward by a day or two, but the plan was too well formed to be an impromptu one. I am also certain that, without your presence here, Sir Henry would have swiftly joined his father in the Baskerville-Smythe vaults.”

  Well that was a relief. I didn’t like the idea of Reginald Worcester, harbinger of death.

  “It also explains why incriminating evidence was planted in our rooms, sir. He wouldn’t have known your motive for impersonating Mister Roderick, but he would have suspected you were after the title too. That would have made you a dangerous rival who had to be removed — either by murder or by framing you for murder.”

  “But would he be allowed to inherit the title?” I asked. “I’m sure someone told me that prometheans had no legal standing. Once dead, always dead — in the eyes of the law.”

  “That is true, sir, but he does not appear to grasp the finer points of primogeniture. One also assumes that having lived at the Hall for five months without anyone guessing he was a réanimé, that he would attempt to continue that deception once he claimed the title.”

  “True,” I said. “As long as he steered clear of Turkish baths and Swedish massage.”

  “Indeed, sir. Of course, as soon as I discovered that Witheridge was the real Roderick Baskerville-Smythe, I realised that would necessitate a modification to your identity. Pursuant to which, sir, I endeavoured to create a plausible alternative.”

  “Complete with a threatening note from the murderer.”

  “Indeed, sir. I thought it would add verisimilitude.”

  “Reeves, you are a marvel. I’m surprised you weren’t named Nonesuch, because you are truly without equal.”

  “Thank you, sir. One endeavours to give satisfaction.”

  ~

  I was waiting for Emmeline on the back lawn when I saw Reeves approaching at a good lick.

  “What is it, Reeves? You look in a hurry.”

  “I made an unfortunate discovery in the kitchen, sir.”

  “Not another Cyrillic tattoo, I hope?”

  “No, sir. I have just discovered what is on the menu for luncheon.”

  “Something avant garde, is it?” Reeves is easily offended by the experimental.

  “One could say that, sir. It is Head of Pasco.”

  “What?”

  “The assistant cook found the pastry head in the pantry, sir. I suspect Lupin put it there. The cook, not knowing its true provenance, believed the object to be a pie that Mrs Berrymore had prepared earlier. It is now in the oven, baking, and will be served on a bed of gratin de pommes à la dauphinoise within the hour.”

  “Shouldn’t we warn someone?”

  “I fear that might invite a number of unwelcome questions, sir.”

  “We can’t not say anything. We’re dining at their trough for another ten days, Reeves. The least we can do is mark their card when they accidentally bake an under gardener.”

  Reeves coughed. “You are no longer Mister Roderick, sir. You are a policeman who would be expected to find a room at the Grimdark Arms. And I’m certain the coroner will have a good deal of questions for Inspector Natterjack.”

  “Time to pack, you think?”

  “I have already instructed Tom to take your bags to the carriage, sir. With luck we shall be in time for the one fifty-five to London.”

  “What about Emmeline?” I said. “I can’t leave without saying goodbye.”

  “Miss Emmeline is coming with us, sir. When I saw her last she was on her way to the drawing room to inform Lady Julia.”

  “She wasn’t armed, was she?”

  “No, sir.”

  Well, that was a relief.

  Reeves and I ankled around to the front of the house to await Emmeline and Tom by the carriage.

  “I was thinking, Reeves,” I said. “If réanimés have no legal standing, how will they try Roderick? Can they hang a chap who’s already dead?”

  “Posthumous execution is not without precedent, sir. Oliver Cromwell was beheaded two years after he died.”

  “So there’s no plea of ‘not guilty by reason of previous demise?’”

  “No, sir.”

  I glanced towards the house. Still no sign of Emmeline.

  “Did Roderick say who the automaton with the blowpipe was, Reeves?”

  “No, sir. I believe Silas would be the most likely candidate. He was the only other automaton at the Hall and, being mute, made the ideal instrument. One assumes that had he been taller, and equipped with a head, he would have been first choice for the role of the
ghost as well.”

  I saw Emmeline running across the lawn, one hand firmly keeping her hat in place. I jumped down from the carriage and waited for her.

  “Is Lady Julia alive?” I asked. “Just checking in case we have to take the boat train to Plymouth.”

  “She lives,” said Emmeline, taking my hand and climbing aboard. “Though she’s not amused. I told her that I found Devonshire a little too much like Whitechapel. And had decided to leave while I still had a head on my shoulders.”

  “Golly,” I said. “How’d she take it?”

  “A little better than when I delivered my parting shot. ‘One murderer in the family may be regarded as a misfortune, Lady Julia, to have a murderer and a réanimé looks like carelessness.’”

  One can’t beat Oscar Wilde for a juicy parting shot.

  “You didn’t hunt down Ida as well, by any chance?” I asked.

  “I thought about it. But one can’t bury a body when one has a train to catch.”

  Say what you like about finishing schools, but they always teach their girls the essentials.

  “Anyway,” said Emmeline. “I have decided to found a charity — The Aid Association for Distressed Mechanical Folk. Lottie shall be its first beneficiary. You’ll stump up ten guineas for her new feet, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Will ten guineas be enough?”

  “That’s the amount Stapleford quoted. Apparently, you can get them by mail order from Gears and Roebuck. Would you like new feet, Reeves?”

  “I think not, miss.”

  “I’ll have to get a new body for Annie too,” said Emmeline. “We can come back next week in disguise and break her out of Quarrywood. We’ll need an extra beard for Annie so we can smuggle her onto the London train. And four pairs of trousers, extra long.”

  Reeves coughed. “I don’t think that will be necessary, miss. I had a long conversation with Annie after you left the quarry yesterday afternoon. Surprisingly, she is much taken with her new position. She told me that her horizons, not to mention her arms, have been considerably broadened by her recent employment at Quarrywood.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Apparently so, sir. She views her previous life as somewhat monotonous and lacking in opportunity. Whereas now, she sees herself as a character actress with an exciting future.”

  “But they turned her into a giant octopus, Reeves,” said Emmeline.

  “A temporary position, miss. She’s been promised the role of a pterodactyl in The Quarry That Time Forgot.”

  Tom appeared, staggering across the lawn carrying a heavy trunk. Reeves helped him hoist the last of our luggage onto the back of the carriage.

  “This train doesn’t stop at Gretna Green, does it, Reeves?” asked Emmeline.

  “No, miss.”

  “Then onward to the next mystery.”

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my editors: Jennifer Stevenson and Sherwood Smith.

  And, of course, Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  About Chris Dolley

  Chris Dolley is a New York Times bestselling author. He now lives in rural France with his wife and a frightening number of animals. They grow their own food and solve their own crimes. The latter out of necessity when Chris’s identity was stolen along with their life savings. Abandoned by the police forces of four countries, who all insisted the crime originated in someone else’s jurisdiction, he had to solve the crime himself. Which he did, and got a book out of it — the international bestseller, French Fried: one man’s move to France with too many animals and an identity thief.

  His SF novel Resonance was the first book to be plucked out of Baen’s electronic slushpile. And his first Reeves and Worcester Steampunk Mystery — What Ho, Automaton! — was a WSFA Small Press Award finalist in 2012.

  Other Books By Chris Dolley

  What Ho, Automaton! — $2.99 from Amazon US or Amazon UK

  Finalist for the 2012 WSFA Small Press Award for short fiction and the first of the Reeves and Worcester Steampunk Mysteries. This book contains two stories — What Ho, Automaton! and the short novel, Something Rummy This Way Comes.

  Wodehouse Steampunk! Reggie Worcester and Reeves, his automaton valet, are consulting detectives in an alternative 1903 where an augmented Queen Victoria is still on the throne and automata are a common sight below stairs. Humour, Mystery, Aunts and Zeppelins!

  “A fun blend of P.G. Wodehouse, steampunk and a touch of Sherlock Holmes. Dolley is a master at capturing and blending all these elements. More than fascinating, this work is also rip-roaring fun! But where Dolley really excels is in capturing the atmosphere and humor of the Bertie and Jeeves stories. Any Wodehouse fan will want to grab a copy of this work, but even if you have never explored that world, What Ho, Automaton! is a fun and fascinating read. Highly recommended, take a spin in this steampunk hybrid and enjoy the ride!” — SFRevu

  “Dolley got me to laugh out loud near the end. Which, frankly, is VERY hard to do. Dolley's tone is spot on Wodehouse and the steampunk elements tie into both plot and silliness admirably.” — Gail Carriger, author of Soulless

  “I enjoyed every page of this book. A steampunk novel that combines classic British Humor, tongue-in-cheek references to Sherlock Holmes and a cast of great characters. I don’t think I’ve actually laughed out loud this much while reading a book in a very long time.” — ErisAerie

  “I found myself snickering and snorting as I read, thinking the entire time 'this is pure awesome'” — Tiffany A. Harkleroad

  Reggiecide — $2.99 from Amazon US or Amazon UK

  This novella is the second of the Reeves and Worcester Steampunk Mysteries.

  Guy Fawkes is back and this time it’s a toss up who’s going to be blown up first — Parliament or Reginald Worcester, gentleman consulting detective.

  But Guy might not be the only regicide to have been dug up and reanimated. He might be a mere pawn in a plan of diabolical twistiness.

  Only a detective with a rare brain — and Reggie’s is amongst the rarest — could possibly solve this ‘five-cocktail problem.’ With the aid of Reeves, his automaton valet, Emmeline, his suffragette fiancée, and Farquharson, a reconstituted dog with Anglican issues, Reggie sets out to save both Queen Victoria and the Empire.

  “I find that a good book is enjoyable by the end of the first chapter. This book was good by the end of the first SENTENCE — ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a chap in possession of a suffragette fiancee is in need of a pair of bolt cutters.’ As you can guess this story is a treasure trove of homages as well as just a jolly good romp. Treat yourself to this joyride.” — Media Junkie

  “Funny, extremely well-written, short and sweet. All those words come to mind after reading this little masterpiece.” — zjordi

  The Aunt Paradox — $2.99 from Amazon US or Amazon UK

  This novella is the third of the Reeves and Worcester Steampunk Mysteries.

  H.G. Wells has a problem. His Aunt Charlotte has borrowed his time machine and won't give it back. Now she's rewriting history!

  Reggie Worcester, gentleman's consulting detective, and his automaton valet, Reeves, are hired to retrieve the time machine and put the timeline back together. But things get complicated. Dead bodies start piling up behind Reggie's sofa, as he finds himself embroiled in an ever-changing murder mystery. A murder mystery where facts can be rewritten, and the dead don't always stay dead.

  “What ho!! This quick read was so good I read almost the entire thing aloud to everyone in the room! Witty, charming, urbane and clever, the more-than-slightly clueless Reginald Worcester and his automaton Reeves are the best thing to happen to steam punk.” — Chris Keen

  An Unsafe Pair Of Hands — $3.99 from Amazon US or Amazon UK

  Peter Shand is the ‘safe pair of hands’ — a high-flying police administrator seconded to a quiet rural CID team to gain the operational experience he needs for promotion. On his second day he’s t
hrust into a high-profile murder case. A woman’s body is discovered in an old stone circle — with another woman buried alive beneath her.

  The pressure on Shand is enormous. The case is baffling. There appears to be no link between the two crimes. The media is clamouring for answers. And Shand’s convinced his wife is having an affair with someone called Gabriel.

  Which just happens to be the name of the two chief suspects. Both are womanisers, and both mention a mystery woman — who sounds suspiciously like Shand’s wife — as their alibi. The pressure builds. Shand can’t sleep, a local journalist is out to discredit him, his wife is about to be dragged into the case and then, goaded at a press conference about lack of progress, he invents a lead. And keeps on lying — to the press, his boss, his team — telling himself that he’ll solve the case before anyone finds out.

  And then another murder occurs. And had there been a third?

  Shand begins to doubt his ability. He’s desperate, increasingly unpredictable, pursued by an amorous psychic, and somehow gaining a reputation for arresting livestock.

  Which will break first? The case, or Shand?

  “I gave up sleep so that I could read to the surprising and satisfying ending. I laughed out loud in public in response to the quirky plot twists. An Unsafe Pair of Hands by Chris Dolley is a masterful addition to the British mystery genre.” — Barth Siemens

  “This mystery is so much fun. The humor is delightful and the plot is complex enough to keep you turning pages to the end. And the characters are marvelous, from the snobby London “incomers” the Marchants to The Moleman and even a cock-a-doodle-dooing chicken, all of whom are suspect at one time or other. This is by far one of the best summer reads of 2011.” — Jensview

  Resonance — $3.99 from Amazon US or Amazon UK

  Graham Smith is a 33 year old office messenger. To the outside world he’s an obsessive compulsive mute — weird but harmless. But to Graham Smith, it’s the world that’s weird. And far from harmless. He sees things other can’t…or won’t. He knows that roads can change course, people disappear, office blocks migrate across town — all at night when no one’s looking.