The Aunt Paradox (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) (9 page)

was not sure which shocked me the most — 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.

Which baffled me somewhat. Shouldn’t Reeves be back at the flat with the time machine by now? Or had Dawson managed to snatch it back again?

I checked the lock on the front door. It hadn’t been forced.

I mixed myself a cocktail and pondered at great length.

Then, as I was weighing up the pros and cons of moving to New York under an assumed name, the door opened and in walked Reeves.

“Reeves! Where have you been?”

“The British Library, sir. May I mix you another cocktail?”

“Hang the cocktail!” I said. And, yes, dear reader, those were my exact words, so you can see I was not myself. “You abandoned me, Reeves!” I continued. “What happened to your feudal spirit? Didn’t you notice I’d been shot!”

“That was why I had to leave, sir.”

“Because I’d been shot?”

“Exactly, sir. If I had come to your aid, the probable outcome was that both of us would have been shot, and the time machine lost. And if I
had
succeeded in rescuing you, then you would still be wounded. Even if we piloted the time machine into the past and erased the timeline where the shooting took place, the chances were that you — being inside the time machine and thus shielded — would remain shot. The only sure way of restoring your body to full vigour was for me to change the timeline whilst you were still in it.”

“I think I’ll have that cocktail now, Reeves.”

“Very good, sir.”

“So you’re saying you were looking after my best interests?”

“Indeed, sir.”

I’m sure there was large flaw in Reeves’s argument, but hanged if I could see it.

“So what is the state of the timeline now, Reeves? Henry VIII still have the requisite number of wives? Or has Dawson gone back and married them all?”

“The timeline is most acceptable, sir. That was the purpose of my visit to the British Library. To verify the situation.”

I was confused.

“Are you saying you’ve fixed everything? Without me? What happened to the ethical dilemma?”

“That was indeed most vexing, sir, but The Traveller and I came up with a passable solution.”

“The Traveller! Is he alive?”

“Very much so, sir. And most grateful. He sends his regards.”

“That’s all very well, Reeves, but where’s the time machine? Dawson said he’d undo anything we did.”

“The time machine is beyond his reach, sir. The Traveller has taken it back to the future and we have limited its appearance in the past to but a single day. Long enough to provide Mr Wells with material for his book, but no more. The Traveller used the fuel cell from the later machine to repair the old one, thus negating the need to enlist the help of Mr Dawson and the other associates.”

“Forgive me for being critical, Reeves. But weren’t you the same Reeves who quoted Babbage at me? All that guff about butterflies and interconnectivity, and how imperative it was not to change the slightest thing as the results were unpredictable?”

“Yes, sir. The Traveller and I debated that particular question for some considerable time. We thought we may have to make several additional interventions, but, in the end, it wasn’t necessary. It appears that the existence of a working time machine was largely withheld from the general public, who believed the machine to be a work of fiction. We also checked the lives of HG Wells, his four associates and their close companions, and though there were differences, they were not regarded as major.“

“East Dulwich still stands then?”

“It does, sir.”

“What about Dawson though? Presumably if everyone’s alive then Dawson is walking around scot-free! Which irks me, Reeves. And I am not a man easily irked. He shot me. He threatened me. He framed me for murder, killed five people and had you sent to Madame Tussauds! Shouldn’t we warn the police about him?”

“I rather suspect the police are too busy, sir.”

“Busy, Reeves?”

“Yes, sir. Apparently the Crown Jewels were stolen this morning.”

“The Crown Jewels! Someone broke into the Tower?”

“It would appear so, sir. The police should be searching Mr Dawson’s house in...” He pulled out his pocket watch and checked it. “Approximately five minutes, sir.”

“Reeves?” I cast a suspicious eye over his eyebrows. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

I was not going to let this go.

“You
framed
Dawson?”

“Frame is such an ugly word, sir. I think it more a case of righting an injustice.”

“I can’t argue with that, Reeves, but ... don’t you think the Crown Jewels a touch excessive. Why not rob a small bank?”

“It was essential to ensure Mr Dawson is convicted, sir. And the theft of the Crown Jewels is more likely to ensure that the case is prosecuted with the utmost vigour.”

“I say, Reeves, you do know the timeline owes us seven pounds ten shillings and sixpence, don’t you?”

“I have that recollection, sir.”

“You didn’t happen to trouser the odd jewel, did you, when you were in the Tower?”

Reeves coughed disapprovingly. “I did not, sir.”

“But you agree we’re owed it?”

“Possibly, sir.”

“What I don’t understand is where it went. I mean, there we were handing over seven pounds ten shillings and sixpence to 1903 and — poof — it’s gone. And what about that extra necklace from the 1860s. Do the butterflies get it all?”

“I think my pressure is dangerously low, sir.”

“Rot, you always say that when you want to avoid answering the question.”

I could tell Reeves was wavering. His eyebrows took on a contemplative demeanour.

“I did happen to glance at the
Sporting Life
, sir, when I was waiting in line to purchase
The Mayfair Maniac
.”

“And? Come on, Reeves. Spill all, it’ll make you feel better.”

“It was the merest of glances, sir, and not at all intentional.”

“That goes without saying, Reeves. What did you see?”

“Enough to suggest that a small wager on Wargrave in this year’s Cesarewitch would be a fruitful one, sir.”

“Good man! I knew I could count on you, Reeves.”

“A
small
wager though, sir. We are only owed seven pounds, ten shillings and sixpence.”

“Don’t worry Reeves. The denizens of East Dulwich are safe in my hands.”

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

And, of course, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse.

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 plucked out of Baen’s electronic slushpile. And his first Reeves and Worcester Steampunk Mystery — What Ho, Automaton! — was a WSFA Award finalist.

Finalist for the
2012 WSFA Small Press Award for short fiction
and the first of the Reeves and Worcester Steampunk Mysteries.

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

“I found myself laughing out loud at Reggie and the fabulous Reeves as they romped their way through various adventures. A homage to Wodehouse without being sycophantic, this is fantastic.”
—
Sueo23

“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

“Dolley has managed to capture Wodehouse’s style, rhythm, and sense of humor almost perfectly … it is just so much fun, and the author’s exploration of this alternative England, full of robots and polite Frankenstineian constructs, adds an absurd depth not found in its inspiration.” —
Magus Manders

“A rollicking good read! Not having read the original Wodehouse (although feeling a sudden desire to) but being a huge fan of the TV series I adored these stories - I could hear Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry in my head. True to character and quick of wit, I couldn’t stop laughing.”
—
Larry Auld

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

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 thrust 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?

“This book started off with a bang and sped quickly down a steep hill with more twists than a twisty thing. I really enjoyed this book and could hardly put it down!”
-
Diane Johnstone

“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

“This is a very good read. You will want to be sure to have a day off or a quiet weekend ahead of you, because this book is very hard to put down once you get started reading it.”
-
Kathleen Kempa