The Aunt Paradox (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) (5 page)

“I never actually saw him. He reported the crime by telephone.”

“An anonymous caller?” I said. “And you believed him?”

“He was very convincing, sir. He sounded terrified and ... this address
is
on file.”

“It is?”

“Yes, sir. It’s been given as the London address of a notorious helmet stealer by the name of Nebuchadnezzar Blenkinsop.”

“Never heard of him,” I said, clutching hold of the time machine for support. Nebuchadnezzar Blenkinsop was the name I always gave to the magistrates when I was up before them! Had I been too squiffy one time and given my real address?

“How old would you say this anonymous caller was, sergeant?” asked Reeves.

“Difficult to say. Like I said, he was in fear of his life. Not an old gent. Not a young one neither.”

“Did he have an accent at all? A local man? A foreigner?” said Reeves.

“Weren’t no foreigner. Sounded a bit like Mr Worcester. Posh, that is.”

~

The constabulary took their truncheons and left, leaving Reeves and me to ponder over what we’d learned.

The first thing I’d learned was that gin was essential to time travel. Without it one couldn’t keep track of the changing timelines. So, I rescued the cocktail that Reeves had abandoned earlier on the drinks cabinet and downed it in one.

“Do we have any more gin, Reeves?”

“I keep an extra bottle for emergencies, sir.”

“Well, keep them coming, Reeves.
This
is an emergency. And make sure you’re up to pressure. Who knows what might happen next.”

I settled back in my favourite armchair, freshly shaken cocktail in hand, and pored over the facts.

“Do we assume this anonymous caller is the chap who shot our dead body?” I asked.

“It is a strong possibility, sir. I think we
can
say that this caller wanted to implicate you in the murder, and most likely was responsible for depositing the deceased in your sitting room. But whether they killed the gentleman, or procured an already deceased gentleman for the purposes of incriminating you, I cannot tell.”

“But why me, Reeves?”

“That
is
perplexing, sir.”

“In books, this sort of thing happens when the detective is close to solving the crime. The murderer decides to get rid of the detective by framing him. But we’re not
on
a case, are we, Reeves?”

“There
is
the case of stolen time machine, sir. Technically, we haven’t returned it yet.”

“You think HG Wells has cut up rough? Give me back my time machine or I’ll fill your sitting room with dead bodies?”

“No, sir, but it is possible that we didn’t restore the timeline
exactly
as it was before. We may have another case in this timeline.”

I put my drink down. Reeves had done it again! We
must
have a new case, and we must be doing pretty well if we’d flushed the murderer out.

We searched the flat. If we were on a case, we must have written something down, or collected a pile of clues — the calling card of the client, if nothing else.

We searched for a good half-hour, and found nothing. We didn’t even have HG Wells’ calling card.

“Shouldn’t we have
some
recollection of this new case, Reeves? Don’t the butterflies rewrite our memories?”

“It is a branch of science little understood, sir. And there is the added complication of having our memories shielded by the time machine. If you remember, the later Mrs Dean had no memory of
Miss
Wells whilst the other Mrs Deans did.”

That was true.

“More gin, I think, Reeves. My little grey cells need a thorough lubrication.”

“Very good, sir. There is also the possibility that there
is
no new case. The fact that the deceased appears to originate from the 1850s suggests the involvement of a time machine. We are in
possession
of a time machine.
Ipso facto
there must be a link.”

I’m often asked, usually at the Sloths after a couple of snifters, ‘what’s the difference between a consulting detective and a policeman?’ I always give the same answer — hunches. We consulting detectives are always having them. Facts are useful, but pedestrian. It’s like playing
Snakes and Ladders
. Facts take one from square to square, but it’s the ladders — those are the hunches — that really advance a case. I’m not quite sure where the snakes come into it, but I suspect finding a dead body behind the sofa qualifies as landing on one.

I had just landed upon a ladder.

“Egad, Reeves, you’ve hit upon the solution!”

“I have, sir?”

“It’s obvious really. We have a baffling case.
And
we have a time machine.
Ipso whatso
, we beetle into the future to find out how we solved it. It’s like turning to the last page of a detective novel!”

Reeves aired his disapproving face. “I strongly advise against it, sir.”

“Why? It’s not the past. There’s no timeline to sabotage.”

“People living in the future may have a different perspective upon the matter, sir. You’d be tampering with their past.”

“I’m doing that now Reeves. Without a time machine. Or are you arguing for pre-destination?”

“No, sir. After witnessing the events of the past day, I cannot believe that any of this was pre-ordained. But neither can I recommend using the time machine for anything other than a dire emergency.”

“A dead body in next week’s bath counts as the direst of emergencies in my book. Not to mention someone trying to frame me for murder. I can go on my own if the prospect unnerves you. I think I’ve grasped the basics of flying the machine.”

“That will not be necessary, sir. I will, of course, accompany you.”

“Stout fellow, Reeves! How far ahead do we need to go? One week? A month?”

“The case may be a complex one, sir. I would suggest at least a year.”

“That long?”

“It would be safer, sir. One would imagine the time machine would require some kind of fuel to power it. A single journey into the future would be safer than having to take several because we’d underestimated the length of time the case had taken to solve.”

Reeves had raised a worrying point.

I put my drink down and got up.

“Have you looked for some kind of steam outlet on the machine?”

“Yes, sir. There doesn’t appear to be anything obvious. From the sound of the engine, I suspect it to be powered by electrical energy, but I can see no apparent way to charge it.”

A lesser detective may have balked at the prospect of a one way trip into the future. But Reginald Worcester was
not
a lesser detective. And he had a sneaking suspicion that Reeves was spinning him a line to put him off using the machine.

I downed my drink, withdrew four crisp new five pound notes from my writing desk, and grabbed Reeves’s emergency bottle of gin.

“Sir?” said Reeves, eyeing the bottle.

“It’s my ‘time traveller’s essential hamper,’ Reeves. Now, dial up 1905, we’re off to the last page.”

905 was not what I was expecting. My lovely flat had become a home of dust, cobwebs and abandonment. All my furniture was still there — my books, my clothes — but nothing had been cleaned or aired for what looked like a year.

“I’ll open a window, sir.”

I checked the bathroom, nudging the bathroom door open with a tentative foot, worried what I might find in the bath.

I exhaled a sigh of relief. “The body’s gone, Reeves.”

That was our only piece of good news. We’d left no note, no clue as to where we’d gone, and the most recent newspaper we found was for two days after HG Wells had first burst into the flat.

“We must have left in a hurry,” I said.

“The icebox is empty, sir. As is the drinks cabinet. And there are no remains of fresh food in the pantry. All of which indicates to me that our departure was not unduly swift. We had time to prepare.”

“But prepare for what?”

“I suggest we check your wardrobe, sir, to see if any clothes are missing.”

Our rummaging discovered that three suits, a smoking jacket, six shirts, and many assorted smaller items were absent. As was my large trunk — something I only use for long sea voyages.

“America, you think?” I asked Reeves.

“That would be my assumption, sir. And, by the condition of the flat, it would appear we are still there.”

It’s at time like these when a time traveller’s emergency hamper comes into its own. I returned to the sitting room, grabbed the gin, and poured myself a swift one.

“Well, Reeves, what do we do now? Does our continued absence suggest we still haven’t cracked the case?”

“There are insufficient facts to say, sir. In the 1890s you fled to America on three occasions to escape the machinations of your aunts. This could be another of those occasions.”

I sipped my drink and had a good ponder. Most of my flights to New York had been to escape imminent engagements. Now that I was engaged to Emmeline, who was from a good, if somewhat strange, family, there would be no need for auntly intervention. Granted, she occasionally chained herself to railings, but they were always in good neighbourhoods. Nothing to raise the ire of an aunt and make her advance the claims of an alternative.

And where
was
Emmie? Had she joined me in New York? I wouldn’t have left her behind.

If her father hadn’t taken against the telephone and banned it from the Dreadnought household, I could have telephoned her London home and found out.

I was struck by another ladder. The telephone!

I could call the Sloths! One of the chaps there would know where I’d gone and why.

I raced over, picked up the earpiece, and tapped the bar twice.

“Operator?” I said. And then to Reeves, “We shall soon know everything, Reeves. Nothing escapes the chaps at the Sloths
.
Find a pad and pencil. I’ll get the phone number of wherever we’re staying in New York and book a long distance call. Operator! I say, Reeves, this line sounds awfully quiet.”

“Allow me, sir,” said Reeves.

I handed the apparatus over to him. He tried it several times before pronouncing it deceased.

“The telephone appears to be disconnected, sir.”

“We’ll visit the Sloths in person then. Shall we walk or fly?”

“Walk, sir. As much as I eschew unnecessary interaction with people from other time periods, the thought of taking a time machine into the Sloths fills me with extreme trepidation.”

“You think someone would find it and take it for a spin?”

“I think it highly probable, sir. May I also suggest you wear a disguise?”

“Disguise?”

“As a precaution, sir. One year ago, someone attempted to frame you for murder. Two days later you fled the country and have not returned since. One must assume there to be an element of danger should you be recognised.”

“What kind of disguise, do you think? I have a Pierrot costume.”

“I was thinking of a hat and large scarf, sir. If you covered your nose and lower face...”

So disguised, we left the flat and set off on foot for the Sloths. I must say that 1905 didn’t look much different from 1904. I wondered if I might catch sight of the new Stanley Steamer — the improved 1905 version with heated seats and a super-condenser — but my luck was out.

And then, as we were passing a bookshop, my eyes strayed to the window display and...

My knees almost gave way. There, in the bookshop window, were dozens of books, each with my face on the cover. And above my face was the title —
The Mayfair Maniac
.

~

I’m not sure if my eyes grew quite as large as dinner plates, but I wouldn’t have been surprised. A small side plate, certainly. I couldn’t speak. I could barely stretch out a finger to point at the window.

And where had they got that picture? I looked positively deranged. And as if the picture and the title weren’t bad enough, there below the name of the author — one Horace Smallpiece — was the line,
The blood curdling true story of Reginald Worcester, the diabolical murderer known to all as the Mayfair Maniac!

“Most unfortunate, sir,” said Reeves.

“Unfortunate! This is beyond unfortunate, Reeves. This is diabolical!”

“There is, however, a silver lining.”

“You
see
silver linings, Reeves? I fail to spot them.”

“Our mission was to discover what happened next, sir. That book will tell us.”

As much as I loathed handing over three shillings and sixpence to Horace Smallpiece and his execrable publisher, Reeves was right. We needed that book.

“I think two copies would be advisable, sir. That way the two of us can skim through the contents with more speed.”

I gave Reeves a begrudging fiver from my time traveller’s emergency hamper, and waited outside. Had they found the body in the bath? And was I still on the run?

The two books purchased, we hurried back to the flat. I skimmed a few pages on the way.

Apparently we’d been apprehended at Southampton docks attempting to board a liner for New York. And I was accused of not one but
five
murders.

“Five murders, Reeves!” I said ‘They found five dead bodies in the flat.”

Back at the flat, we raced through the book, skimming Horace Smallpiece’s purplest prose — the man was a sensationalist of the worst order.

“It says here, sir, that they never identified any of the deceased.”

I skimmed further ahead to the middle of the book where there were some photographic plates.

“They have pictures of all five in the middle of the book, Reeves. Including the chap we left in the bath. All of them look like they were snatched from the past. Old style collars and whatnot.”

Pretty strong stuff too, those pictures. They looked like police photographs taken of the bodies as they had been found. They didn’t actually show any bloodstains — they were all head and shoulder shots — but still.

“The police believed it was you who dressed them all in early Victorian clothing, sir. It was one of the more sensational aspects of the case. Doctor Freud believed you had a grandfather fixation.”

“A what?”

“A grandfather fixation, sir. He posited that in your delusional state you believed you were killing your grandfather. Hence your need to clothe your victims in apparel of the correct vintage.”

“What absolute tosh, Reeves! I got on very well with both my grandfathers. Didn’t anyone speak up for me?”

Reeves took an inordinately long time to respond. “Reeves?”

“I was reading ahead, sir. It would appear your defence was one of ‘not guilty by reason of mental negligibility.’”

“Mental negligibility!”

“Yes, sir. Many of your friends and family testified on your behalf.”

“What page is this on, Reeves?”

“I have forgotten, sir. I think my pressure may be dangerously low.”

I didn’t believe a word. While Reeves repaired to the Butler’s pantry to pretend to top himself up, I scoured the offensive little book until I found the passages I was looking for. There were three pages of them! Italicised extracts from witness statements — each of them dredging up incidents from my past which, taken out of context, made me look like an inveterate carpet chewer!

Aunt Bertha, Great Aunt Boadicea, Uncle Clarence, Cousin Herbert, Georgiana Throstlecoombe, Stiffy, Tufty, Binky, Cicely — all of them testified to my mental negligibility.

As did one other witness.

“Et tu, Reeves!” I said as he slunk back from the pantry.

“Sir?” he said.

“You know very well what I’m talking about, Reeves. This passage here about my ‘inability to differentiate between fact and fantasy’ and my ‘sincere belief that the criminal mastermind we were searching for was an orang-utan!’”

“I imagine, sir, that my testimony was coloured by my desire to ensure you were not convicted for murder.”

“That’s all very well. But why not tell the truth?”

“If you turn to the next page, sir, you will see that you tried that.”

I turned to the next page. More italicised witness statements, but this time they were mine.

“It appears that your account of the time machine, the twenty-nine Aunt Charlottes, and turning HG Wells into a woman, did not play well to the jury, sir.”

It had not. According to Horace Smallpiece the court had had to be cleared for excessive laughter, and one of the jurors had had an unfortunate accident which required a change of clothing to be sent for.

“Miss Emmeline gets a mention, sir.”

I braced myself for another body blow and turned to the next page.

But the more I read, the more uplifted I felt. Emmie hadn’t deserted me! She chained herself to the gallery on day one, the witness box on day two, and on day three — after having both her favourite chain and her spare one confiscated on the door — she threw herself in front of the judge as he entered the courtroom and brought him down. She wasn’t allowed in after that, but kept vigil outside, throwing rocks at the prosecuting barristers.

I was touched beyond words.

“It would appear that, at the time of publication, Miss Emmeline is chained to railings outside Parkhurst prison, sir.”

“Is that where I am, Reeves? Parkhurst?”

“Yes, sir. The jury found you guilty, but the judge decided against the death penalty due to your good family and ... other reasons.”

“Other reasons, Reeves?”

“I am speaking
his
words, sir. Your good family and obvious mental negligibility.”

I harrumphed. I’m not a man generally given to harrumph, but in the circs I felt entirely justified.

“And where are
you
now, Reeves? Does it say? In the services of a new master?”

Reeves turned several pages before replying.

“I ... I appear to have been de-activated, sir, and...”

“What is it, Reeves.” The poor man looked in shock. I’m sure I saw a wisp of steam escape from his left ear.

“It says here that I am on display in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors, sir. I am the Mayfair Maniac’s Robot.”

I forgave all instantly.