The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (24 page)

I tried to remember who had been in the hallway with us. Lily for one. She was the one who’d screamed. Henry and Ida had been talking to us when Lily screamed. But who else had been there?

“Lady Julia wasn’t with us,” said Emmeline. “She’d retired early. Stapleford left early too — to go home ... or so he said.”

“There is a circumstance that does not necessitate a second person on the roof, miss,” said Reeves. “I agree it is more likely that Pasco climbed down the rope, but if he did, indeed, ascend, then he could have pulled the rope up after him, waiting until everyone was asleep before letting the rope down again.”

“Someone would still have to pull the rope back up before morning, Reeves. Dangling ropes get noticed.”

“Indeed, sir, but the murderer could have done that at any time during the night, allowing them to be present in the hallway when Miss Lily screamed.”

We may not have been back to square one, but we’d tumbled a good few squares back towards its general vicinity.

“I don’t suppose you can glean anything from the variety of knot used to tie the rope to the chimney?” I asked Reeves, hoping for one of those nautical ones that only one-legged whalers were in the habit of tying.

“It’s a clove hitch, sir.”

“Not an unusual knot then?”

“No, sir.”

I scratched the old noggin. We’d discovered so much and, yet, were we any closer to discovering the identity of the brains behind the murders? We had Selden pegged for Constable Brown’s murder, but an hour ago we hadn’t even realised he was dead. We’d come to the roof looking for Sir Robert’s and Pasco’s killer. Now it looked like we were going to leave in the same quandary.

“It has to be Stapleford,” said Emmeline. “He wasn’t present when Lily screamed. He knows all about automata.
And
he has one of Edison’s automata.”

“A strongly-reasoned suggestion, miss, though predicated upon the conjecture that Mr Edison has such a strong desire to see the demise of Quarrywood that he is prepared to order Sir Robert’s and, presumably, Sir Henry’s murder.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “You assume everyone acts out of logic, Reeves. For all we know Stapleford might have woken up one morning and thought, ‘I don’t like the way Sir Robert looked at me yesterday. I shall reap terrible revenge.’ Facts and motives are all very well, but when it comes down to it, there is only one mantra in the consulting detective’s quiver. The person least likely is always the one what done it.”

“In that case, I vote for Ida,” said Emmeline. “No one’s even mentioned her as a suspect, and yet she’s American,
and
her father knows Edison.

Emmeline was right. I’d never considered Ida, or her father, as a suspect when...

I had it!

“What if the entire Edison story is a red herring?” I said. “Planted by T. Everett. If it wasn’t for T. Everett we’d never have heard of Edison. We’ve assumed from the moment T. brought it up that he’s right and Edison’s evil. But what if T. and Ida have a far simpler plan — to marry Ida off to Sir Henry? It’s not about Quarrywood. It’s about the title. And not wanting to wait for Sir Robert to pass it on.”

Emmeline was beside herself. “Please let me arrest her! She may resist.”

I was considering Emmeline’s request when I noticed Reeves peering intently over my shoulder.

“What is it, Reeves?” I asked, turning to follow his gaze.

“There are two riders approaching across the moor, sir. One appears to be a policeman.”

Twenty-Two

s soon as I pulled up the rope, the three of us beetled down to the main drive to meet the riders.

One was Tom, the other turned out to be Sergeant Stock whom Tom had been sent to Princetown to fetch. The sergeant was not a natural horseman. He didn’t so much dismount as half-slide, half-fall to the ground, and he looked a little pained in the billowy portions.

“I hear there’s been a murder,” said Sergeant Stock, rubbing said tender portions, as Tom led the horses off.

“Three actually,” I said. “Though, technically, I’m not sure if the law would count Pasco’s death as murder. What do you think, Reeves?”

“I fear legal opinion may regard the murder of an automaton as criminal damage, sir.”

“There we are, sergeant. Two murders and a rather nasty case of criminal damage.”

“Who be the other murder then?” said the sergeant.

“Ah.” I searched for a good way to answer, but soon realised there wasn’t one. “I’m afraid it was a colleague of yours, sergeant. Constable Brown.”

“Ho!” said the sergeant. “I thought something bad must have happened to him when he didn’t report back. What happened to him?”

“Selden,” I said. “We found the um ... we found the constable’s helmet and boots an hour ago.”

“Ho!” said the sergeant, stiffening his upper lip. “This be a bad business and no mistake. Did Selden eat Sir Robert too?”

I brought the sergeant up to speed viz poison darts, Pasco, ghosts and Lottie. I’m not sure how much sank in though as his eyes began to glaze over halfway through the cloven-footed business

“I know it’s baffling,” I said. “But these country house murders always are.”

The sergeant’s eyes brightened. “Country house murder, you say? I went on one of they detective courses at Scotland Yard. We did a whole afternoon on country house murders. I knows exactly what to do.”

“You do?” I said.

“I do and no mistake, gents, miss. Would’ee be so good as to fetch the butler so I can arrest him?”

“What?”

“It’s always the butler what done it in a country house murder. Inspector Savage told me himself.”

“
When
did you go on this course, sergeant?” I asked.

“Six years ago this June, sir.”

“I think things have moved on apace since then, sergeant. Modern butlers are a less bloodthirsty breed — or all the bad ones have been locked up. The butler as murderer is definitely old hat.”

“Be it?”

“Indeed, it be. More likely to be a mad scientist than a butler these days. There’s a definite vogue for mad scientists, don’t you think, Reeves?”

“There is somewhat of a fashion, sir, though I believe Scotland Yard’s current advice is to investigate each case on its merits and to keep an open mind.”

The sergeant rubbed his chin and looked perplexed. “Don’t like the sound of that. Are there any mad scientists nearby?”

“Two, I think. Dr Morrow’s one. What do we think about Stapleford?”

“Definitely,” said Emmeline. “He has a house full of suspicious robots and he builds giant steam-powered octopi.”

“Sounds mad to me, miss,” said the sergeant. “Where can I find him?”

I wasn’t sure about this. I’m all for bold moves, but there was an air of heavy-handedness about Sergeant Stock’s approach. One uses guile to catch a criminal mastermind, not brute force. And by the way he’d just whipped out his truncheon, I had the impression that brute force was Sergeant Stock’s forte.

“I don’t think you can arrest anyone for a country house murder without having a proper
dénouement
first,” I said. “It’s just not done.”

“A what-ment, sir?” said the sergeant.

“
Dénouement
. It’s the bit where the detective invites all the suspects into the drawing room and spends an hour pointing the finger at people and explaining who did what, how, and why.”

“Don’t like the sound of that either,” said the sergeant. “I be not one for public speaking.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” I said. “I’d do the talking for you. I’m a bit of a consulting detective, don’t you know? You’d be there to do the arresting at the end. They usually try to make a run for it.”

“Ho!” said the sergeant. “That sounds more like it! When we be having this
dénouement
?”

“Soon,” I said. “I need to collect a little more evidence first.
Dénouements
have to be done just so or the judge throws out all the evidence as inadmissible.”

“May I suggest, sergeant,” said Reeves. “That while Mr Baskerville-Smythe is collecting evidence in the country house murder of Sir Robert, that you concentrate on the apprehension of Mr Selden?”

The sergeant gave his chin another rub. “You sure it be not too much trouble for you, Mr Baskerville-Smythe?”

“No trouble whatsoever, sergeant.”

“Then that be settled, sir.”

~

I thought that went well. It’s often a difficult relationship between the constabulary and the consulting detective.

Sergeant Stock left soon after — heading for the village of Grimdark in the back of Tom’s cart. He’d decided against riding across the moor to Princetown.

“I be not crossing that moor again by horse,” he’d told us. “I’ll wade across the Angst if I haves to. Once I reach Grimdark, I’ll telegram the prison for reinforcements. I’ll have a dozen warders here by sunset. Mark my words, Selden won’t be on the loose for long.”

It started to rain so Emmeline, Reeves and I retired to the Hall, which was positively buzzing. Lady Julia had the servants running around preparing the Hall for mourning — covering every mirror in black crepe, tying black ribbons to every chair leg, and making a large yew wreath draped with black ribbons for the front door.

“Since my nephew appears incapable of honouring his family obligations, I suppose
I
must arrange it all,” she’d told Berrymore, before promptly delegating all the arranging to him.

We kept out of everyone’s way and headed up the servants’ staircase to my room. I’d had an idea, and felt the need to give it an airing.

“As I see it,” I said, hands behind back and doing a little pacing between the chimney breast and the window. “Finding this Lottie has to be our priority. If she killed Sir Robert, and the evidence appears to point that way, then she knows who ordered her to do it. Remember what happened to Pasco. As soon as he’d played his part, that was it. Biff! And a good deal of unpleasantness in the turbine area. So why is Lottie still alive? Is it because she’s skittish and hoofs it into the mire every time anyone comes near? Or is her job not finished?”

I could see that Emmeline was impressed. “There’s someone else she’s been ordered to kill! I bet it’s Henry.”

“What do you think, Reeves?” I asked.

“I find your reasoning sound, sir, though, I doubt she is the intended instrument for a second murder.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because she no longer has the blowpipe, sir. One would think that if two murders had been planned Miss Lottie would have been furnished with a blowpipe and two darts. One certainly wouldn’t expect that, after the success of the first murder, that the blowpipe would have been discarded.”

“Perhaps she got cold feet?” said Emmeline. “Or realised it was wrong and threw away the blowpipe.”

I liked the sound of that. “In which case the murderer will definitely be after her. We have to find her first.”

But how? I did some more pacing while Reeves mixed me a drink.

“We know she lives at the hut circles,” said Emmeline. “Couldn’t we hide nearby and wait for her to arrive?”

I couldn’t see us approaching anywhere near the hut circle without being spotted by the other feral automata. And they’d certainly warn Lottie.

“Bait is what we need,” I said. “Something that would make Lottie come to us.”

“A new dress?” said Emmeline. “That black one she has must be caked in mud around the hems.”

“No, not a new dress, new
feet!
” I said, spilling my drink in the excitement. “We’ll leave a note for her on the mire gate. ‘Dear Lottie, dashed sorry to hear about the cloven feet. We can get them removed and your old feet put back on. Call at the Hall at your earliest convenience. Ask for Roderick.’”

“That’s perfect, Reggie!” said Emmeline.

“It’s using the psychology of the individual, Emmie. Find out what Lottie needs the most and offer to provide it,” I said.

I thought Reeves would be pleased — being very big on the p. of the i. — but I could tell by his look that he had an objection. I braced myself for it. “What is it, Reeves?”

“I fear it unlikely that Miss Lottie can read, sir. If you remember—”

I did remember. “Do you have a better suggestion, Reeves?” I said, a trifle nettled.

“As it happens, sir, there is something that we know Miss Lottie needs even more than new feet, and that she will come to the Hall for tonight.”

“What?” I was agog.

“Steam, sir.”

I put my drink down. The man was without peer.

“Do you really think she’d risk coming back here after the murder?” said Emmeline.

“Where else would she go, miss? Without steam she will cease to function.”

“Stapleford has a steam outlet,” said Emmeline.

“The lack of cloven footprints in the mire path at High Dudgeon would indicate she doesn’t frequent Stapleford’s boiler room, miss.”

“The feral automata did say they avoided Stapleford,” I said. “And the quarry too.”

“Indeed, sir. I would suggest we hide in the old stable block tonight and await Miss Lottie’s arrival.”

~

I downed my drink and we shot off to the old stable block post-haste. Emmeline and I looked for a suitable spot to hide later while Reeves availed himself of the steam outlet pipe. The moment he began to unbutton his shirt, I had to look away. Some things are private. I’d once had to help Stiffy Trussington-Thripp connect an unconscious Reeves to a steam hose and it hadn’t been a pleasant experience for any of us.