The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (2 page)

“Well, that’s easily solved. I’ll introduce myself as a man of means from the start. Diamonds, I think. No one frowns upon a rich relative turning up on the doorstep.”

Two

reluctant Reeves sent off the telegram announcing my imminent return to the family bosom, and off we set on the long train journey from London to deepest, darkest Devonshire. The journey was made even longer by Reeves’s disposition, which was as gloomy as the weather outside.

That’s the problem with having a giant brain — it’s never satisfied. When it’s not picking holes in perfectly good plans, it’s wasting time searching for something better. I’ve always been a strong believer in the old proverb — too many thoughts spoil the child. Far better to come up with something that’ll get one’s foot over the threshold and then extemporise. After all, no plan survives first contact with a family member.

We arrived in the late afternoon at a place called Grimdark — which Reeves assured me was the closest station to Baskerville Hall. All I can say is that if the Eskimos have forty words for snow, the denizens of Grimdark must have at least fifty for grim. I’d never seen such a place. Everything was damp, grey and dripping. The grey granite walls, the grey slate roofs, the leaden sky. My face and clothes were coated in a fine mist the moment I stepped off the train.

I asked the porter if there was such a thing as a cab we could hire.

“A cab you say? B’ain’t be no cabs round ’ere. Where you be ’eading?” said the porter in an accent that could only be described as below-decks pirate.

“Baskerville Hall,” I said.

The porter took his cap off to scratch his head. “Ain’t seen Tom all day. They always send Tom to pick up visitors. They know you’re comin’?”

“I sent a telegram. Did you mention what time we’d be arriving, Reeves?”

“I did, sir. Perhaps I should send another telegram to say that we have arrived?”

The porter shook his head, sending a light spray of moisture flying in all directions. “There be no telegraph at the ’all, sirs. Line stops ’ere. We ’as a boy who takes the messages back ’an forth on ’is ’orse, but by the time ’e got a message to Tom, be close on dark. An’ Tom won’t cross the moor in the dark. No one round ’ere would. I’ll ’ave a word with me brother. ’E ’as a cart, an’ if you don’t mind a bit o’ dirt, e’ll get you, and your bags, to the ’all next to no time.”

The porter’s brother, swaddled in a voluminous felt cape and perched upon an ancient cart drawn by an equally ancient horse, arrived five minutes later. We stowed our bags in the back and climbed aboard.

“How far is it to the Hall?” I asked.

“Five mile.”

It was a long and uncomfortable five miles. The road turned into a rutted track as soon as it left the village. From there it descended down a steep valley to a rickety bridge over a small but boisterous river. Then it climbed up onto what our driver told us was the beginning of the high moor. Not that we could see much of it. There was a persistent mist and the occasional patch of low cloud.

“That’s the ’all, up ahead on the ’igh ground to the left.” said our driver. “An’ that — on the right — is Great Grimdark Mire. Whatever you do, gents, stay well clear. Bottomless ’tis. Swallow an ’orse an’ cart like this in seconds. An’ the more you struggle, the faster t’will eat you up.”

I half-expected the driver to cross himself.

I couldn’t see where the mire began and the moor ended. They both looked the same to me. Everything to the right of the track was bleak and flat, barely a tree to be seen anywhere. An expanse of brown grasses, mosses and heather that stretched as far as the mist allowed the eye to see.

“Is this all Grimdark Mire?” I asked.

The driver shook his head. “Grimdark grows and shrinks with the rain. ’Tis three square mile in the winter. A path that’s safe in July will kill you in January.”

“Lucky it’s nearly May, then,” I said, deciding it was time to lighten the mood.

“Been a wet spring,” said the driver. “Followin’ an awful wet winter.”

“Ah, well. Soon be summer,” I said.

“Then there’s the piskies,” said the driver.

“Piskies?”

“Little folk. They live on the moor. Mischievous creatures, they be. Nothin’ they like better than to trick some poor unfortunate soul into strayin’ into the mire. You take heed, gents. If you see a light dancin’ on Grimdark, or hear distant singin’ on the wind ... you stay where you be. Don’t go off investigatin’. It’ll be the last thing you do.”

Baskerville Hall was marginally less gloomy than our driver. It was one of those grey gothic piles with mock battlements and stone mullioned windows. The kind of place Edgar Allen Poe would have liked. But at least the grounds had trees and lawns — a little oasis of cultivation sitting on a raised plateau above a sea of wild and dismal browns — though it looked like someone had gone overboard on the topiary. One of the lawns was surrounded by a wild menagerie sculpted in yew.

~

I trotted up the stone steps and pulled the doorbell. An age passed. I pulled at my cuffs, craned my neck mire-wards in search of piskies, and blew on my hands for warmth. Then the door opened to reveal one of the tallest and thinnest butlers I’d ever seen. Whether his hair was white or had attracted a fine dusting of snow from the altitude, one couldn’t tell. He looked down at me from a great height and spoke.

“Yes?”

“Roderick Baskerville-Smythe, estranged scion of this parish,” I replied. “I believe I’m expected.”

“Oh,” said the venerable b. “You’ve come, have you?”

I thought his tone a bit familiar for a butler, but then I’d never been to Devonshire before. Maybe this was the local custom.

“It’s not
him
, is it, Berrymore?” said a female voice from the depths of the Hall.

“I fear so, milady,” said the butler.

“Well bring him in, and let’s have a look at him.” said the woman, who I deduced — there being no other candidates — was Lady Julia.

The butler opened the door wider and stood aside. I removed my hat and strode into the hallway. Lady Julia and a chap of the same vintage, who had to be Sir Robert, were peering down at me from a first floor landing.

“What ho, what ho, what ho,” I said. “I’m Roderick, your long lost relation — risen from the sidings, so to speak. Reports of my flattening greatly exaggerated, what? Takes more than the 4:10 from Buenos Aires to keep a good Baskerville-Smythe down.”

Silence. I was reminded of the stunned reception I received two Christmases ago when I was given the wrong cue at the Gussage St. Crispin village show. Mrs Enderby-Slapp was on stage handwringing her way through Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy when on bounced R Worcester, clutching his racquet, and uttering a cheery ‘anyone for tennis?’

“You don’t look like Cuthbert,” said Sir Robert, breaking the silence.

“No, I’m
Roderick
, sir, not Cuthbert. Cuthbert was my father.”

“Is he an idiot?” Lady Julia asked her brother-in-law. “Of course we know you’re not Cuthbert. Sir Robert was pointing out that you don’t look like him.”

This was not going as well as I’d hoped. Lady Julia had a way of looking at a chap that made one feel like the lowest form of pond life.

“That’s because I’m younger, Lady Julia. More hair, don’t you know...” I gripped the rim of my hat harder, and tried to stop babbling. “And ... and, besides, I take after my mother.”

“She was an idiot too, was she?” asked Lady Julia.

I could tell that Lady Julia was going to be somewhat of a problem. A winning smile and a breezy turn of phrase was not going to cut it.

“Don’t be so hard on the boy, Julia,” said Sir Robert. “He
is
an orphan.”

“And I was hit by a train,” I added, deciding to play the sympathy card. “A big one.”

“You don’t look like you’ve been hit by a train,” said Lady Julia. “You don’t even have a limp. And why were we told you were dead?”

All good questions. I was sure I’d rehearsed an answer, but there was something of the Medusa in Lady Julia that turned all my little grey cells to stone.

“If I may be of assistance, your lord and ladyship,” said Reeves, stepping forward.

“Who’s that with you?” Lady Julia asked me. “The train driver?”

Reeves coughed. “I’m Mr Baskerville-Smythe’s personal gentleman, milady. My master has little recollection of the train crash, or the events that followed, as he was unconscious for more than a week. One of his fellow passengers was misidentified as Mister Roderick by the investigating authorities, and it was
his
demise that was reported.
Our
Mister Roderick was thrown clear when the train hit the stagecoach and, fortuitously, landed on his head — thus escaping further physical damage.”

“H’m,” said Lady Julia. She didn’t look entirely convinced, but she looked mildly swayed.

“It’s true,” I said. “It took me months to remember who I was.”

“So why didn’t you write when you
did
remember?”

“Mister Roderick was destitute after the crash, milady. He had no identity, no home, and no resources. So he travelled inland to seek his fortune. By the time he regained his memory, he was hundreds of miles from the nearest telegraphic station.”

“Did you find your fortune?” asked Sir Robert.

“Rather! I have five diamond mines. I’m pretty big in amethysts too. So, don’t worry, I’m not here to touch you for a few quid.”

“Why
are
you here?” asked Lady Julia.

“To see the family seat. Do a spot of sightseeing before I toddle off back to South America. Not knowing about one’s roots can cause a big hole in a chap’s life.”

“H’m,” said Lady Julia. I’m not an expert on hums, but I felt this to be a warmer hum than the previous one.

“I think he may be Roderick, Julia,” said Sir Robert. “Cuthbert was always a bit odd. And you can’t turn the boy away on a night like this. Welcome to Baskerville Hall, my boy. Berrymore will show you to your room. We dine at eight.”

~

“Is Miss Dreadnought on the premises, Berrymore?” I asked casually when we reached the door to my room.

“I believe she’s in the library, sir.”

“With my cousin?”

“Mister Henry is at the studio, sir.”

My heart soared. Emmeline was not with Henry! And here was my chance to see her before dinner and explain my unexpected arrival ... and change of name.

I left Reeves unpacking and oiled down the stairs in search of the library. It took me three doors to find it. But where was Emmeline? There was a girl reading in a high-backed chair by the window, but it wasn’t her.

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry to disturb and all that, but I was told Miss Dreadnought was in here. Have you seen her?”

“I am Miss Dreadnought.”

“Really?” I thought I’d met all the Dreadnoughts, but I’d never clapped eyes on this one. “Roderick Baskerville-Smythe,” I said, adding a deferential bow. “Is your sister about? Emmeline, that is.”

“I
am
Emmeline, Mr Baskerville-Smythe.”

If she’d produced a wet halibut and slapped me across the face with it, I couldn’t have been more shocked. If you recall it was only last month that I’d seen H.G. Wells turn into his sister before my very eyes! Was it happening again? That ‘changing the timeline’ thingy. Reeves said the time machine was safely back in the future, but what if someone had brought it back and rewritten history again?

“Are you feeling unwell, Mr Baskerville-Smythe?” this new Emmeline asked.

“What? No, I’ve just had a long day. I’ve only just arrived from South America. Um ... do you know H.G. Wells?” It was worth a shot. The last time the time machine had gone missing, it had been his aunt who’d stolen it.

“I’ve heard of him. I prefer Jules Verne though. That’s who I’m reading now.” She showed me her book,
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
.

“Does Jules Verne have a time machine?” I asked.

“Not that I’ve read.”

“You haven’t seen a strange automobile with a giant parasol on the back around here, have you?”

“No. Though there might be one at the studio. There’s all sorts of unusual props there.”

“Ah. And the studio would be ... where?”

“It’s at the old quarry. I’m sure Henry or Sir Robert will take you there tomorrow. They’re besotted with the place.”

“Right ho,” I said. “I’ll be beetling off then. Enjoy your book.”

I positively
flew
out of the room, swooshed up the stairs two at a time, and burst through the door to my room. If anyone could put the timeline back together, Reeves was the man. His steam-powered brain was one of the wonders of the modern world.

“Reeves!” I cried, in between ragged breaths. “It’s happening again. The timeline. Emmie’s not Emmie any more. She’s changed.”

“Most distressing, sir,” said that calm rock of logic as he folded the Worcester socks. “In what way has Miss Emmeline changed?”

“In every way! She says she’s Emmie, but she doesn’t look anything like her. She’s blonde. And shorter. And fuller in the face.”

“Did she recognise you, sir?”

“No! She didn’t know me from Adam. Have you noticed anything strange, Reeves? Conflicting memories of historical events? An extra wife for Henry VIII perhaps?”