The Aunt Paradox (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) (2 page)

I was reminded of the latest Mallory Queen —
The Mystery of the Missing Siamese Triplet
— in which Mallory kept the suspect talking while his father crept upstairs and searched the attic for leopards ... or had it been leotards? The lettering on the page had been smudged and I still wasn’t entirely sure.

“I have a better plan,” I said. “You and I, Bertie, will call upon your aunts and keep them busy while Reeves infiltrates below stairs. He’ll soon learn the location of both the time machine and any key that might unlock the room it’s hidden in.”

As plans went this had to be one of my best. Even Reeves could not contain his admiration — I saw his left eyebrow rise a full one eighth of an inch.

But I wasn’t finished.

“And when Reeves has located it, he’ll pass you the key. I shall then feign a heart attack and, in the confusion, you slip out, find the machine, and fly it home.”

was feeling pretty braced as I followed HG in the Stanley. With a modicum of luck we’d have the case wrapped up in time for a spot of lunch at the Sloths.

Reeves was not so confident.

“Retrieving the time machine, sir, is but the first step. The more difficult task is to repair the timeline and return things to the way they were.”

“Do we have to? Think of all those poor Eton boys swotting for their exams. Wouldn’t it make their life easier if every queen was a Charlotte?”

“If only that were true, sir, but I fear the changes will be far more pervasive than that. Mr Babbage was of the opinion that a butterfly flapping its wings in the Amazonian forest could cause a tornado in East Dulwich.”

“Large butterfly, was it?”

“I believe the size of the butterfly to be irrelevant, sir. Mr Babbage was making an observation concerning the interconnectivity of events.”

I had to disagree.

“It may be irrelevant to C. Babbage esquire, but one suspects the people of East Dulwich have a different opinion on the matter. Is anyone hunting these giant butterflies, Reeves? What happens if they flap their wings in a different direction and Piccadilly gets flattened?”

“I believe we have arrived, sir. Mr Wells is preparing to park.”

~

Reeves oiled off in search of the servants’ entrance while Bertie and I prepared to engage the enemy head on. We found them in the drawing room. I felt like that chap — Daniel, I think his name was — standing in the doorway of the lions’ den. The only difference being that aunts, unlike lions, don’t have the habit of becoming bosom chums with the first chap who extracts a thorn from between their toes.

And there were twenty-eight of them. All looking my way as the lively hum of conversation came to a stuttering halt. It was uncanny how alike they were. Far more so than sisters. Some appeared identical and they ranged in age from deb to dowager.

The Worcester knees trembled, but I steeled myself. Grasping Bertie’s arm, I leaned toward him and whispered some sage last minute advice. “If any look like exploding, run.”

“Is that little Bertie?” said one of the aunts. “Hasn’t he grown! When I last saw him he was still in short trousers.”

“He was a baby when I last saw him.”

“And who’s that with him? Did Sarah have another child?”

“This is Reginald Worcester,” said Bertie. “An um ... old school friend. Reggie, this is my aunt, Mrs Dean.”

“What ho, aunts,” I said, putting on the best Worcester smile.

“Bertie, dear, you’re not here to remonstrate with me about that time machine again, are you? I’ve told you I’ll return it once I’ve finished with it.”

“Quite the opposite,” I said. I’m not sure if initiative has horns but, if it does, I gave them a good grabbing. We consulting detectives always play off the front foot. “We’re here to take notes,” I continued.

“Notes?”

“Rather! I’m planning an evening with sixty Reginald Worcesters. Have you any tips?”

“I was at a dinner with a Worcester last week,” said one of the younger aunts. “Very odd fellow. Kept talking about newts.”

“That would be my Uncle Clarence,” I said. “He was very partial to newts in his younger days. Did he tell you the one about...”

I have little recollection of the subsequent five minutes other than I talked, at great length, about newts, uncles, and the pros and cons of changing the leg before wicket rule in cricket. And that, after the first three minutes, the audience became decidedly tough. I may have been heckled by a Pope.

My attempt at distraction came to an unexpected end when a twenty-ninth aunt appeared in the doorway with a subdued-looking Reeves. She didn’t actually have hold of him by his ear, but both gave the impression that an unspoken hand/ear connection was in existence.

“I found this one lurking on the back stairs,” said the aunt.

“Is he something to do with you?” said one of the Aunts, giving me the gimlet eye.

“Good Lord, no,’ I said. “I’ve never seen Reeves before in my life.”

~

I blame it on the gimlet eye. Even Murgatroyd of the Yard would have spilled all before the withering gaze of twenty-nine aunts.

“What shall we do with them?” asked one of the horde.

“Throw them out,” said another.

“No, they’d only sneak back inside. I want them where we can see them.”

“But Aunt—” said HG.

“No buts, Bertie. You’ll do as you’re told.”

We were escorted to a bay window at the far side of the drawing room and told to remain there and behave ourselves.

“Did you get the key?” I asked Reeves as soon as I was able, keeping my voice as low as I could.

“Regrettably not, sir, though I have discovered the location of the time machine. It is in the wine cellar. I was in the process of obtaining the key to the aforementioned room when I was apprehended.”

“Where’s the key now, Reeves?”

“The Mrs Dean who apprehended me has it, sir.”

I made a note of what she was wearing. And became aware for the first time of the marked difference in clothing between the younger and older Charlottes. It wasn’t a matter of fashion. The younger aunts’ dresses were just not of the same quality. The materials were less fine and were poorly cut. One might even say there was a hint of ‘below stairs’ about them. And they wore no jewellery. Clearly Aunt Charlotte’s fortunes had improved considerably over the years.

“The servants are somewhat agitated, sir,” continued Reeves. “The cook has left to stay with her sister, and both maids have refused to set foot in the house until the entire property has been exorcised. Only the butler remains, and he won’t leave his pantry.”

“What do we do now?” whispered HG.

“I think we continue with the original plan,” I said. “I’ll feign a heart attack and you, Bertie, will have to retrieve the key from that Mrs Dean over there in the powder blue and pearls.”

I could tell that Reeves disapproved by the slight downward curl of his lower lip.

“My observation of the Mrs Deans, sir, leads me to believe that any unusual action perpetrated by yourself would be viewed with the utmost suspicion.”

“Mr Reeves is right,” said HG. “They’re watching us like hawks. I’d never be able to retrieve the key.”

“May I suggest a different course of action, sir?” asked Reeves.

“It doesn’t involve appealing to their better nature, does it?”

“No, sir. I believe the answer lies in the psychology of the individual.”

“Even when there are twenty-nine individuals?”

“Especially when there are twenty-nine individuals, sir.”

~

Reeves’ plan began with a cough. I count myself one of the foremost experts on Reeve’s oesophageal lexicon. This one was authoritative and yet contained a genteel note so as not to startle a room full of ladies. Personally, I would have opted for something a little stronger. These were aunts after all.

“If I may make an observation, Mrs Dean, Misses Neal,” Reeves began. “I believe there is a matter of considerable import that you may have overlooked concerning the ball that you intend to host.”

Conversation amongst the aunts waned somewhat. “What are you talking about?” asked one of the older aunts, who by the cut of her dress I would have placed into the 1901 vintage.

“You would all need ball gowns, would you not? Sixty ball gowns in the
latest
fashions. Society would demand it, I think. Do you possess sixty such ball gowns?”

From the looks that darted from aunt to aunt, I could tell that they did not.

“We will
buy
sixty new ball gowns.”

“That would be a considerable expense, Mrs Dean. Would you be buying the requisite jewellery as well?”

Never have I been in the presence of twenty-nine aunts and experienced such silence. No one was admonished, and no one even
breathed
for a full two seconds!

“Charles will buy them for us, won’t he?” said 1891 to 1904.

“Who’s Charles?” asked one of the 1870s.

“Our husband.”

“We didn’t marry Charles, did we? Whatever happened to William?”

“Who’s William?”

The two seconds of silence was trampled upon by a good sixty seconds of spirited discourse on suitors and the relative merits (of which there were very few) of Charles, William, Frederick, Albert and the Emperor Charlemagne.

“But where
is
Charles?” asked an 1890. “I’ve been here all morning and I haven’t seen him once.”

“He left yesterday,” said 1901, although it could easily have been a 1902 or 3. “He said he was going to the club and wouldn’t return until there was only one of us.”

This caused some consternation.
Why didn’t you tell us? Where are we going to find the money? Don’t you have ANY ball gowns?

Reeves quietened the hubbub with a cough.

“If I may make a further observation, Mrs Dean, Misses Neal,” he said. “It has come to my attention that your servants have either left or are about to give notice. You have no one to attend upon you and you have no money to run this household. Your only recourse is to return all your younger selves to the times they came from before even greater tragedies occur.”

Surely this had to be checkmate? Even an aunt had to bow before the logic of Reeves’ giant steam-powered brain.

“No,” said 1904, drawing herself up to her full height. “I have a better plan. I shall go into the past and collect the money we need from there.”

fear I have made matters worse, sir,” said Reeves.

“It’s not your fault, Reeves. We all thought you had a winning hand, and were playing it magnificently. But ... aunts play with a stacked deck, Reeves.”

“We have to do something though,” said HG. “Mr Reeves is right. Inspired as his attempt was, it
has
made things worse.”

“I don’t see how,” I said. “Seems like quite a clever plan to me the way she explained it. She’s borrowing from herselves to give to herselves. And all the Mrs Deans present gave their permission to touch their husband for an advance on housekeeping. No laws are being broken.”

“Several
scientific
laws will be, sir.”

“Any of them by Babbage?” I enquired.

“I believe so, sir,” said Reeves haughtily.

“Well, I think we can safely disregard anything Babbage has to say upon the matter. Does he posit the money will explode or be carried off by passing lepidoptera?”

“Neither, sir, but if one takes money from the past then that money is no longer available for its original use.”

I cogitated for a good number of seconds but still couldn’t see what Reeves was getting at.

“I can’t see the problem, Reeves. Are you saying you’re robbing Peter to pay Paul? But in this instance, Peter is Paul ... but older ... and wearing a dress.”

“If I may explain, sir.”

“Please do.”

“If a ten pound note is removed from 1890 then it will not be available that year to give to the cook to pay for provisions. The Mrs Dean of the 1890 vintage will have to dig into her savings to find another ten pound note. If one robs the past of too many ten pound notes, one might find one’s current address is relocated to the poor house.”

“And you wouldn’t even know why,” added HG. “Because the timeline would rewrite your memories too. All you’d remember is that money kept going missing and your husband would insist he gave that missing money to you!”

I was in need of a cocktail. “But... how do you explain all the aunts? The past doesn’t seem to mind being robbed of aunts.”

“
That
is a paradox,” said HG. “It shouldn’t be possible. The time machine will insulate anything inside it from the timeline outside. It’s part of the temporal shielding that allows the occupants to travel through time without ageing or having the years ripped from their bodies. But the moment the machine is switched off, you’d expect the timeline to be resolved. Every time Aunt Charlotte fetched someone from the past, one of them should have disappeared.”

“The predominant theory, sir,” said Reeves, “suggests it would be the latest Mrs Dean who disappears. The new timeline would have Mrs Dean disappearing in 1890 and re-appearing, at the same younger age, in 1904. The 1904 Mrs Dean would disappear, as she could not have existed the day before to steal the time machine.”

“Which creates the paradox,” said HG. “If she didn’t steal the time machine, how did the 1890 Mrs Dean get transported to 1904?”

“That’s all very well,” I said. “And it’s reassuring to hear a scientific theory devoid of butterflies, but — clearly — it is wrong. Behold the evidence.”

I flourished an arm towards the assembled throng of aunts, none of whom exhibited the slightest inclination to disappear, immersed as they were in journals and pattern books, chatting excitedly about what to wear to the upcoming ball.
Whatever happened to puff sleeves? And bustles? I don’t care what you say, I’m NOT going to wear an S-bend corset!

“Perhaps there’s a delay before the timeline rewrites itself,” suggested HG. “It might be working its way through the 1890s now and won’t reach us for a day or two.”

“I think that unlikely, sir,” said Reeves. “The timeline has already absorbed the change to Henry VIII’s nuptials. I wonder if maybe we are looking at the problem
in medias res
when we should be looking at the problem from the perspective of the future.”

Why is it that the times one needs a drink the most are the very times when the fortifying libation is withheld? There wasn’t even a decanter of sherry in sight!

“How do you mean?” asked HG.

“I was contemplating Babbage’s cat, sir.”

I, along with the inhabitants of East Dulwich, braced ourselves for another dire warning from the brain of C. Babbage esquire.

“The thought experiment?” said HG.

“Indeed, sir. You may remember Mr Babbage placed his cat in a box to demonstrate the uncertainty principle. It is not until the observer opens the box that the uncertainty is resolved and one knows whether the cat is alive or dead.”

“You think the timeline may be subject to the uncertainty principle?” said HG.

“I think it possible, sir. If Mrs Dean’s intention, the moment she stepped out of the time machine with her younger self, was to return that younger self to her correct time period after a short visit, then the state of the new timeline would be uncertain. Many potential timelines would co-exist until the uncertainty was resolved. Perhaps by the younger Mrs Dean being returned to her correct time, or by the older Mrs Dean deciding to extend her younger self’s stay.”

“Far be it from me, Reeves, to poke holes in all things Babbage, but I think I could tell if a cat was dead or alive without recourse to opening the box. They mewl so, and if you gave the box a slight shake—”

Reeves coughed. “The box is a notional one, sir. As is the cat. It is but a thought experiment.”

“He’d never get an aunt in a box,” I continued. “Aunts do not go quietly. I expect the timeline thought much the same. Henry VIII — we can manage him. Twenty-nine Aunt Charlottes — no thank you. We’ll leave them alone.”

“Indeed, sir. If I may continue?”

“By all means, Reeves. I’m waiting to hear about Babbage’s dog.”

“I fear we may soon have proof of my proposition, sir. Mrs Dean has no intention of returning the money and jewellery that she is bringing with her from the past. All of it will be spent in the present on dresses and accessories for the ball. Therefore, there is no uncertainty, and nothing to prevent the timeline from changing instantly.”

“It may have already started,” said HG. “She would have switched the machine off every time she jumped to a new time. Have you noticed anything, Reeves?”

“Not as yet, sir. One hopes she commenced her travels in the distant past and made her subsequent stops in times progressively closer to the present. In which case she would have noticed her family’s diminishing fortune and cut her itinerary short.”

“I think I heard her say the opposite,” said HG. “She told one of her alter egos it would create less suspicion if she always travelled into the past. That way Charles couldn’t get alarmed about her borrowing as, for him, it would always be the first time she’d asked.”

One had to feel a sneaking regard for Aunt Charlotte.

The wall in front of me shimmered slightly. I blinked. “I say,” I said. “Did you see that? I could have sworn there was a painting on that wall.”

Reeves followed my gaze. “I believe there was, sir. A rather fine Stubbs.” He scanned the rest of the room. “And the crystal and gold chandelier is now what I believe people call a light fitting.”

“You’re right! Why isn’t anyone else noticing? Look there goes another painting! The large one on the chimney-breast.”

“I think I remember the chandelier and the Grimshaw over the fire,” said HG. “But ... a Stubbs you say? I don’t recall Aunt Charlotte ever having a Stubbs. There’s no mark on the wall to show a painting used to hang there.”

“I think, sir — returning to Mr Worcester’s question — a more germane inquiry would be ‘how are
you
remembering?’ From the little I have observed, human memories have always changed along with the timeline.”

“Superior grey cells, do you think?”

“No, sir. Though there is
something
that differentiates Mr Wells and yourself from his maternal relative.”

“What’s that?”

“Alcoholic fortification, sir. Both Mr Wells and yourself imbibed liberally prior to your journey here.”

~

Paintings continued to pop off walls. Persian rugs were exchanged for lesser rugs, and then no rugs at all. Mirrors disappeared, drapes dissolved, and occasional tables became less occasional. Reeves assured us that the wallpaper had changed too, though I had no recollection of the earlier pattern he described. None of the aunts appeared to notice anything remiss at all — even the ones who found themselves suddenly standing when previously they’d been sitting!

“I say,” I said, waving auntwards. “Excuse me! Has anyone noticed the chairs disappearing?”

I might as well have chewed the carpet — if there had been a carpet — such was the look they gave me.
Ignore him, dear, can’t you see he’s touched. I don’t think he’s dangerous, but best not to look at him.

Even HG couldn’t get through to them. “Can’t you see the room changing around you?” he said. “Three of you were sitting on a
chaise longue
a minute ago!”

“Have you been drinking, Bertie?”

“I smelled it on his breath when he first arrived. I didn’t want to say anything but...”

There was simply no talking to them.

The room continued its downward spiral. The good furniture either disappeared or was replaced with an inferior model. Then the air in the middle of the room began to shimmer and — shazam! — a time machine — for what else could it be? — crystallised out of the ether. Aunt Charlotte was sitting in the driver’s seat, with a large pile of loot glistening beside her. She did not look best pleased.

“My lovely house!” she cried, jumping to her feet. “What have you
done
to it? My furniture! My paintings! And who filled my wine cellar with turnips?”

She looked accusingly our way. All other conversation in the room had stopped. Then, just as I was bracing myself for another tirade — with or without turnips — her face changed. All her anger turned to surprise.

“Bertie! What are you wearing?”

I glanced at HG, half expecting to see his clothes turned to rags. But they hadn’t. The Worcester jaw nearly hit the floor. The Herbert George Wells who stood beside me was wearing a long blue dress and, if my nose could be trusted, rather a large amount of perfume.

And when he spoke, it was with the voice of a woman. “Why are you calling me Bertie, Aunt Charlotte? Can’t you see it’s me? Gertrude.”

I could not believe it. Bertie was a Gertie!