by Chris Dolley
I was about to tell him when I was struck by one of the brainiest notions I’d ever had. I’m not sure if it was one of those ladders, or perhaps the fish I’d consumed for lunch, but there it was — like the Sword dangling at the Gates of Damocles.
“So, Mr Wells has no motive, says you?” I said, drawing myself up.
“Not that I can discern, sir.”
“Well, how about this. What if The Traveller was going to oil back into the future with his time machine? He says, ‘What ho, Bertie. I’m off now. Thanks for all the help, what?’ and offers his hand for the parting shake... And Bertie cuts up rough. He wants the machine for his own, so he shoots him. Bertie then dumps the body in the future and denies all to his friends. All’s well for ten years, until Moley perfects his fuel cell. With me so far?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. With this fuel cell onboard they can now take the time machine for daily spins. And one of the chaps — it might be Moley, it might be one of the others — says, ‘How about taking the time machine back to 1894 and finding out what happened to The Traveller?’ Bertie panics and starts bumping them all off.”
Sherlock Holmes after a fish supper could not have come up with anything more brilliant. Even Reeves was impressed (see eyebrows).
“That would be a motive, sir. But why engage our services?”
“Because his Aunt Charlotte stole the machine before he could bump them all off! Prepare the Stanley, Reeves. It’s time to beard Bertie in his den.”
“Before we undertake anything precipitous, sir, I suggest we ascertain who the descendants of Algernon Throgmorton-Undershaft, Jasper Evershot, and Percy Baekeland are. A detour via the British Library, or, perhaps, the Royal Society to ascertain the forebears of Mr Arbuthnot, Mr Dawson, and Miss Traherne...?”
I had to be firm.
“Reeves, now is not the time for ascertaining or deliberating. It is a time for action, while we’re still here with a full set of antecedents. As the bard says, ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all is bound in shallows and porpentines.”
“Miseries, sir.”
“What?”
“Shallows and miseries, sir. The fretful porpentine belongs to Hamlet.”
“Hamlet has a pet porpentine? I don’t recall an aquatic scene in Hamlet.”
“I shall prepare the Stanley, sir.”
~
While Reeves topped up the Stanley’s water tank, I looked up HG’s address in Who’s Who. It was listed as 13 Hanover Terrace, Regent’s Park. Not far at all. A little over a mile.
Before I joined Reeves, I slipped into my bedroom and retrieved my service revolver. If HG Wells was going to be armed, then so was I. I might not have any bullets for it — Reeves keeps on hiding them — but I could still point it menacingly.
Off I ran to the Stanley and leaped aboard.
“Next stop, Hanover Terrace, Reeves.”
I drove the Stanley as fast as the traffic would allow, taking the odd corner on two wheels.
“A two-pronged attack, I think, Reeves. You locate the time machine — it’ll probably be locked in his cellar — while I keep HG busy above stairs. As soon as you find it, give me the nod, and we’ll confront him. ‘Ho!’ we will say. ‘Someone’s stolen your time machine, have they? Well, what’s it doing in your cellar?’ He will fold, Reeves. And if he doesn’t, I have my service revolver handy.”
“Stop the car, sir,” said Reeves.
“What? You object to my plan?”
“No, sir. It’s that advertising hoarding. The one over there above the tea shop.”
I swung the Worcester eyes shopwards and almost lost control of the Stanley, such was my shock.
There was a large poster advertising Dawson’s Hydrogen Fuel Cell. The future at a price you can afford!
Twelve
pulled hard on the brake.
“Remind me, Reeves. Which one’s Dawson?”
“Nathaniel Dawson, sir. He was one of the original four who helped rebuild the time machine.”
“Not one of the second team, then?”
“No, sir.”
I stared at the advertisement. A bit over-the-top, I thought. It was lauding this fuel cell as the answer to Britain’s energy needs. Automobiles, trains, Zeppelins, even factories were going to be powered by Dawson’s Hydrogen Fuel Cell.
“What does this mean, Reeves?”
“I think a visit to the library is called for, sir. Before we accuse Mr Dawson of murder, I think it wise to be sure of our facts.”
I let Reeves drive us to the library. He knew the way, and I needed time to reflect. Could Dawson have done it? He ticked the ‘person you’d least suspect’ box. I had yet to see his ears though.
At the library, I was somewhat taken aback by the reception Reeves received. It was the kind of fawning welcome the chaps at the Sloths usually reserve for Drongo Foxcombe, seven-time winner of the Sloths annual brioche eating competition. How may we help you, Mr Reeves? Of course, Mr Reeves. I will fetch that immediately, Mr Reeves.
Within seconds he had three library automata beetling off into the aisles eager to do his bidding, while another showed us into a small anteroom where ‘we would be more comfortable.’
“You come here often, Reeves?” I asked.
“As often as I can, sir. Fourteen years in a cupboard leaves a significant hole in one’s knowledge.”
Every now and then an automaton would return with a book or periodical, place it on the table in front of Reeves, then beetle off in pursuit of the next request.
I watched, marvelling at the speed with which Reeves could devour a book. There was a veritable breeze emanating from the swiftly turning pages. Any faster and I’d have feared for East Dulwich.
“Anything so far?” I asked.
“Mr Dawson appears to be a prolific inventor, sir. As well as the Hydrogen Fuel Cell, he has also invented Dawsonite — a revolutionary plastic referred to as ‘the material of a thousand uses’ — and is tipped to win this years Nobel Prize for his work on steam-powered monoplanes.”
“You think he’s bumping these people off to steal their inventions?”
“I do, sir. Mr Dawson has no history of studying chemistry and yet he is able to manufacture a revolutionary plastic in a matter of months. Ditto for his monoplane designs and fuel cell.”
One of the library automata returned looking very apologetic.
“A thousand apologies, Mr Reeves, but I cannot locate any chemist by the name of Leo Baekeland.”
Reeves thanked the automation for its efforts and turned to me.
“You may remember Mr Molesworth saying that the only Baekeland he knew was a chemist named Leo, a man working in plastics, sir. I posit that the late Mr Baekeland was the inventor of Dawsonite.”
“Have you accounted for all the dead bodies?” I asked.
“I think so, sir. One of them has yet to be murdered. His son, Percival Throgmorton-Undershaft is a designer of racing Zeppelins, and tops this year’s list of Nature’s ‘scientists to watch.’”
“So Dawson is probably on his way to nobble the last of the Throgmorton-Undershafts as we speak.”
“That would be my guess, sir.”
“Have you found Dawson’s address?”
“He has recently moved to Grosvenor Square, sir.”
“Then let’s get going! Two-pronged attack, Reeves. Just as before.”
I got up to leave, but Reeves remained seated.
“Come on, Reeves. The game’s afoot.”
“I have been thinking, sir. I believe we have an ethical dilemma.”
~
I almost wished I’d never asked. I soon discovered why Sherlock Holmes pretends to be out every time a client with a time travel mystery knocks on his door.
“You see, sir,” commenced Reeves. “We can’t arrest Mr Dawson for murder if there isn’t a body. And there will not be a body for two days. And all five of those bodies wil
l then be in your flat. Convincing the police that Mr Dawson is the murderer and not yourself, will be ... difficult.”
Very difficult, I thought. If not impossible.
“Can’t we nab the time machine and move the bodies chez Dawson?”
“We could, sir. But then we would be faced with the ethical dilemma. Namely, that we could also use the time machine to prevent the murders from happening. But if we did that, then there would be no murders to place at the door of Mr Dawson. He would be a free man.”
“Run that past me again, Reeves.”
“The choice we have, sir, is to allow people to be murdered so that we can convict Mr Dawson. Or prevent the murders, and allow a murderer to go free, perhaps to kill again at a later date should he feel that someone stands in his way.”
These were deep philosophical questions.
“Could we toss for it? Heads everyone lives, tails Dawson’s locked up?”
“I don’t think these are questions we can leave to chance, sir. There is also the question of ‘how many murders do we prevent?’ We could use the time machine to reset the timeline to how it was when we were first engaged by Mr Wells. In which case The Traveller will be dead. Alternatively, we can take the timeline back to 1894 and save The Traveller. But, in so doing, we risk changing the timeline from 1894 to the current day. There may be no Hydrogen Fuel Cell. You and Miss Emmeline may never meet. And I may still reside in a locked cupboard at the Sloths.”
This was a facer. I’m all for saving people, but I didn’t like the idea of Dawson walking away scot-free.
“What do you suggest then, Reeves?”
“I am at a loss, sir.”
And I was nowhere near a gin bottle.
What were we to do?
It’s at critical moments like these — when strong men are faltering — that the Worcesters step forward. We may not see all, but we see enough. And there was one thing that we could accomplish without annoying any butterflies.
We would steal back the time machine. I had no idea what we’d do with it once we had it, but it was imperative we removed it from Dawson’s clutches.
Thirteen
ame plan as before Reeves. I’ll distract Dawson, but this time you steal the time machine and sail it over the road into Grosvenor Square Garden and wait for me there. You can lurk in the ether.”
“I fear for that plan to succeed, sir, you would need to distract a good number of the servants as well. It is one thing to inveigle oneself into the servants’ kitchen and, in the course of conversation, learn the location of a time machine. But to then proceed to that location unmolested, and without drawing unwarranted attention... I calculate the chance of success to be slim, sir.”
He was right. One can’t wander about another person’s house without being challenged. There was only one thing for it.
“Desperate times call for desperate men, Reeves. We need that time machine, and we must have it.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“And we are going to erase this timeline, aren’t we, Reeves?”
“Yes, sir,” said Reeves, exhibiting a modicum of caution in his voice.
“Which would remove any unpleasantness?”
“What nature of unpleasantness, sir?”
“I was thinking of burglary with menaces.”
I was expecting Reeves to complain, but all he said was ‘Needs must, sir’ and arose from his chair.
“Stout fellow, Reeves!”
I almost slapped him on the back, but Reeves would not have appreciated such familiarity — even in a timeline whose days were numbered.
We perfected our plan on the way to Grosvenor Square. Like the Hun, we would be quick, and we would be terrible. I’d use the service revolver to cow the servants and get them to take us to the time machine. We’d be away and into the ether before Dawson could do anything to stop us.
I parked the Stanley several doors away to make sure we weren’t spotted, then strode off in search of the servants’ entrance. Once I’d located it, we nipped down the steps, out came my service revolver, and I knocked thrice upon the door.
Three seconds later, the door opened and a startled maidservant stared soundlessly at the outstretched gun levelled at her nose.
“Step back!” I commanded. “I am the Mayfair Maniac. And this is my robot.”
~
As entrances went, this was up there with the best. The startled maidservant swooned on the spot. Reeves, the aforementioned robot, swept forward to catch her as she fell, and propped her up against the Aga.
The cook screamed. A footman, who had been seated at the kitchen table, jumped out of his chair so swiftly he sent it skittling along the floor behind him.
“Do be quiet,” I said, waggling the gun in their direction. “No one will get hurt if you all do as I say.”
“We are looking for a room that Mr Dawson probably keeps locked,” said Reeves. “He has a machine inside that resembles an automobile. Do you know of such a room?”
Neither the cook nor the footman spoke.
I considered firing a warning bullet into the ceiling. Murgatroyd of the Yard swears by it. There’s nothing better to wake a person up, or show ‘em you mean business, says M. of the Y. But Reeves had hidden my bullets, so I gave it a menacing waggle instead.
“You have five seconds to answer,” said Reeves. “After that I will be unable to hold the Mayfair Maniac back. Behold the bloodlust burning in his eyes.”
I rolled both eyes and affected a look I’d once see Sir Henry Irving attempt when playing Caligula at the Garrick.
“It’s in the cellar!” cried the footman. “On the right at the foot of the steps.”
“And the key?” asked Reeves.
“On its hook on the wall over there,” said the footman. “Third from the left on the bottom row.”
Reeves fetched the key while I gave dark looks to the servants.
“Everyone close their eyes,” I said. “And count to one hundred. If I see one eye open before one hundred, I shall feed it to my robot.”
I legged it in pursuit of Reeves, who’d found the door to the cellar and was holding it open for me.
It was then, in mid-gallop, that I noticed the other footman. He was in the hall, and he’d spotted us.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Mr Dawson! Intruders!”
I shot through the cellar door and was running so fast down the steps — which was suddenly plunged into total darkness, as neither of Reeves nor I had tarried to find a light switch, and Reeves had just closed the door behind him — that I lost my footing, and tumbled the rest of way, twisting my ankle and bruising my shoulder.
The cellar door at the top of the steps flew open with a crash. That provided us with a little light, until the doorway was blocked by the rugged silhouette of a large footman hurrying after us.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” I commanded. I may have been bruised and lying on my back, but at least I’d had the presence of mind not to drop my service revolver.
The footman froze on the staircase. Reeves unlocked the door to the room where the time machine was hidden, and I hobbled to my feet.
I almost made it. I had one hand on the doorjamb to steady myself when — BANG — there came the loudest explosion I’d ever heard. I was thrown forward, landing in a heap just inside the room. And my shoulder, the one I’d fallen upon earlier, felt like it had been speared with an assagai.
It took me a while to realise I’d been shot.
I looked at Reeves. He was climbing into the time machine, apparently oblivious to my position.
There was a click and the cellar was suddenly bathed in light.
“Worcester!” came a surly voice from halfway up the steps. “I should have known it would be you. Stand up and kick that gun away.”
I managed to prop myself up with my good arm and looked towards Reeves.
He’d disappeared. Along with the time machine.
Fourteen
was not sure which shocked me the mos
t — being abandoned by Reeves, or being shot.
Or, indeed, the language employed by Dawson when he discovered the time machine missing. It was enough to redden the cheeks of a sailor with thirty years before the mast.
I struggled to my one good foot, grabbed the door with my one good hand, and hopped through 180 degrees to meet my adversary.
“You have meddled enough in my affairs, Worcester,” said Dawson, advancing upon me, gun levelled and still smoking.
This was my opening for a merry quip, but I didn’t feel much in the mood for quipping. I was losing sensation in my left arm, I had a burning pain in my left shoulder, a sore ankle, and a hole in my new suit! So I gave him a disdainful look instead.
I could tell it wounded him.
“Whatever your valet does, it’s not going to save either of you. Anything you change, I’ll go back a day earlier and change it even more. I have things planned for you that even your automaton can’t imagine.”
“Says you!”
In retrospect that wasn’t my finest riposte, but it was all I had. I’d been shot and abandoned — all in the space of a single second.
Dawson smirked.
“Says I!” he said. “How long do you think you can keep me away from that time machine? You going to watch it every hour of every day for the rest of your life? It only takes a minute to snatch it back. And I have enough money to buy an army. I can storm your flat whenever I want.”
As Snakes and Ladders went, the bullet in the shoulder was a definite snake, but now I wondered if I could see a ladder. What if Reeves was still here? In the ether, that is. He might have manoeuvred the time machine behind Dawson — or, even better, above Dawson — and be ready to materialise any second.
I could be saved.
But I wasn’t.
At least, not by Reeves.
There was a slight shimmer in the air, and then a dazzling light as the gloom of the cellar was replaced by the welcoming sight of my beloved flat.
I was saved! And — I patted myself down to make sure — whole. I had no pain, and no bullet holes. And I was alone. I beetled around the flat, looking for Dawson, dead bodies, time machines, concealed policemen, and Reeves ... and found nothing.
