The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (20 page)

“Well, this is rummy,” I said. “There’s a perfectly good path between here and the Hall. It might not be straight enough for the more exacting crow, but it doesn’t wind or bend that much. So why would anyone risk all to tramp across the mire?”

“Because they don’t want to be seen?” suggested Emmeline.

“One would think, miss, that a person not wishing to be seen could find more opportunity for cover by taking the track. There are plenty of adjacent hummocks and hollows that such a person could use should the need to hide arise.”

“I suppose if one was fleeing, like the cloven-footed woman last night. It would make sense to leg it along a path that no one dare follow,” I said.

“Indeed, sir, but none of these tracks suggest anyone was running. I suspect that either there are more paths exiting the mire or there is a hiding place close to its centre.”

I liked the idea of a mystery hiding place in the middle of the mire, though I thought I’d draw the line at giving it a personal inspection. There are times when it is better to sit in one’s armchair and deduce rather than visit a scene in person.

“Time to pay a call on Stapleford’s automata, I think.”

~

My plan was a two-pronged one. Reeves, having stowed the gun, would locate the tradesmen’s entrance and, over a convivial cup or two of oil at the kitchen table, would proceed to engage the servants in light conversation interspersed with the occasional probing question. Emmeline and I would do likewise at the front door, minus the cup of oil.

“Are you ready, Emmie?” I said just before I knocked.

“Yes,” she said, taking a deep breath.

I rapped three times upon the door. There was always the chance Stapleford was at home, in which case I had prepared conversation A. If he wasn’t, I had a pretty nimble conversation B, which Reeves would have been particularly enamoured with as it was based upon the psychology of the individual.

The door opened revealing a stern looking fellow in a grey suit.

“Yes?” he said, his manner surprisingly short.

“Is your master at home?” I said, breezily.

“No. Mr Stapleford at studio.”

I hadn’t noticed at first, but now I did. That voice — it was American! And, looking closer, his face was far too smooth, and his skin had an odd lustre.

The man was an automaton. An
American
automaton!

I was momentarily lost for words. My plan had been to discover if Stapleford had recently acquired an American automaton, but I’d assumed he’d have been kept hidden in a basement, and that I’d have to get through several questions about geraniums before even broaching the subject.

“May we come in?” asked Emmeline.

“No,” said the automaton.

That wasn’t in my script either.

“Pardon?” I said.

“You’re welcome,” said the automaton, who then proceeded to close the door!

I put a size nine in the way. “Steady on!” I said. “We’re friends of Mr Stapleford.”

“Please remove foot from door,” said the automaton.

“I will if you open it again. You did hear me say we’re friends of Mr Stapleford?”

The door opened a little. “Mr Stapleford not at home. You come back later.”

I turned to Emmeline. “Didn’t Stapleford tell us to wait inside if he wasn’t at home?”

“He did,” said Emmeline.

“You come back later.”

“No, you shall conduct us inside,” I said. “It’s your master’s wish.”

“Master’s wish is you come back later.”

Well, I’ve met some stubborn doormen in my time, but I’d never been barred entry by a mechanical one before.

“Are you familiar with Babbage’s Second Law of Automata?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you will know, and I quote: ‘an automaton must obey the orders given to it by human beings.’”

“Master’s orders take precedence over all others. You come back later.”

I tried another tack.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Falconbridge. I am Mr Stapleford’s secretary.”

“Well, Falconbridge, we have a medical emergency. Miss Fossett here has strained a fetlock. Mr Stapleford, your master, would insist you help her inside so she can put her feet up.”

“I
am
in great pain,” whimpered Emmeline. “I think I shall faint any second.”

“Master’s instructions clear. No one enter house.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Not say. You come back later.”

“There might not be a later. Miss Fossett may expire at any moment. You must know Babbage’s First Law of Automata — that an automaton may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow one to come to harm. That’s what you’d be doing if you don’t let us in — allowing Miss Fossett to come to harm.”

That made him think. His face may have been impassive, and his eyebrows applied with paint, but I could tell that this was one automaton wracked with inner turmoil.

“Cannot comply. Danger Miss Fossett may harm master.”

“What? How?” I asked.

“Master say murderer on loose. Must be vigilant.”

“I don’t think he meant Miss Fossett.”

“Must assume he did.”

So much for the psychology of the individual. Where were all these automata like Pasco, raring to obey orders? My only hope was that Reeves was having better luck at the back door.

“We have a message from Mr Edison,” said Emmeline.

Well, that made him think. It made me think too. Where was Emmeline going with this?

“What is message?”

“His message is a simple one,” said Emmeline, pinning Falconbridge to the threshold with both eyeballs. “He told me to tell you this, ‘Obey Miss Fossett, Falconbridge. She is one of us and knows all.’”

Have I said what a gem Emmeline is? I didn’t know about Falconbridge, but I believed her.

Once more pride went — or possibly went-eth — before a fall. I was certain he was going to step back and invite us in, but instead he rattled off another ‘you come back later’ and slammed the door. I was too numbed to react in time.

“Let’s get the gun,” said a tight-lipped Emmeline. “We’ll see how he reacts to Babbage’s Fifth Law of Automata.”

“There’s a fifth law?”

“It’s called ‘Obey the angry woman with the shotgun or thou shalt be severely ventilated!’”

I ran after her. “I don’t think Reeves would approve.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“I’m sure he won’t. He doesn’t let
me
shoot anyone.”

I caught up with her at the gate and put my hand on her arm.

“Can’t I shoot him a little?” asked Emmeline, calming down a smidgen.

“I don’t think so. The police take a pretty dim view of people shooting secretaries.”

“Out of season, are they?”

“Invariably.”

“That’s a shame.”

“It’s an imperfect world.”

I could have continued gazing into Emmeline’s eyes for the rest of the morning, but a cough from behind heralded Reeves’ return.

“Any luck, Reeves?” I asked.

“No, sir. The cook was uncommonly intransigent. I was refused admittance to the premises.”

“We had the same at the front door,” I said. “Was your cook American?”

“No, sir.”

I brought Reeves up to speed viz Falconbridge.

“He looks like an assassin to me,” said Emmeline. “I bet the cottage is full of blowpipes and that’s why he wouldn’t let us in.”

“An imaginative suggestion, miss,” said Reeves.

“Well,” I said. “We
were
looking for an American automaton, and we found one. That’s got to be significant.”

“I think any significance would be dependent upon other factors being uncovered, sir. A forged will naming Mr Edison as beneficiary would certainly elevate Mr Falconbridge to the position of suspect-in-chief. As would the discovery that he had cloven feet—”

I gasped. “Did he have cloven feet? I didn’t look.”

“Neither did I,” said Emmeline. “I’ll get the gun.”

“No!” I said, grabbing her arm.

“Why not?” asked Emmeline. “You know he’ll refuse to take his boots off otherwise.”

Reeves’ eyebrows took a disapproving stance.

“I strongly advise against this course of action, miss. From what you have said I believe that Falconbridge will place obedience to his master’s orders above that of personal survival. We will then be forced to either shoot or wrestle him to the ground to remove his shoes. Should his feet prove to have the requisite number of toes, we would then have a considerable amount of explaining to do — to both Mr Stapleford and the local constabulary.”

Emmeline does not give in easily.

“I could pretend to faint and fall against him, knocking him over,” she said. “Reggie could then say he thought Falconbridge was injured and tried to administer first aid by loosening his footwear.”

That sounded perfectly reasonable to me. “What do you think, Reeves? There are no firearms involved.”

“I think we should continue our circumnavigation of the mire, sir.”

“Come on, Reggie,” said Emmeline, grabbing my arm. “We can do this.”

“Are you sure you can knock him over?”

“It’s in chapter four of the Suffragettes’ handbook. I once felled the Lord Chancellor with it. The trick is to hook one leg behind his knee and push. Shall I show you?”

“Perhaps later.”

I knocked on the door.

“Go away,” said Falconbridge who, this time, didn’t even bother to open the door.

“It’s an emergency,” I shouted. “Miss Fossett is about to faint. You can’t let her fall on the wet grass. She’ll get colic.”

“Go away.”

There was no reasoning with the chap. Every ruse we tried was met with the same ‘go away.’

Reluctantly we gave up. But we’d be back. Possibly at night.

~

We continued our circumnavigation of the mire. With no track to follow, said track having ended at Stapleford’s gate, the going was considerably tougher and the boundary between moor and mire less distinct. Several times I sank up to my ankles and had to carefully retrace my steps. Other times we encountered giant outcrops of rock, looking like immense standing stones rising up out of the moor, and had to pick our way around them. The mist certainly didn’t help. It may not have been thick, but it hung over both moor and mire now, reducing our visible world to little more than a hundred yards in all directions. As for well-used paths exiting the mire, there were none ... until we were halfway along the eastern edge of the mire.

Reeves noticed it first, stopping a bit like one of those pointer dogs that freeze, with paw raised, whenever they spot their quarry.

“I appear to have found another egress, sir.”

Emmeline and I hurried over, springing from tussock to tussock. I could see the path — and its continuation — a narrow path, barely more than a sheep track, that rose out of the mire and climbed a small slope to our left.

I looked at the tracks coming out of the mire and nearly burst. One of them was from a cloven foot!

Nineteen

positively raced up this new path, slowing only as we neared the crest of the rise. What lay on the other side? The cloven-footed woman’s hideout? Selden? Both of them?

We paused, crouching low, well out of sight of whatever lay ahead.

“I’ll go first,” I whispered. “Reeves, be ready with the gun.”

I crawled forward, heart in m., ready to crawl backwards exceedingly fast should the occasion call for it. And then, as soon as my nose crested the rise, I saw it. An encampment of sorts. Odd, really. It looked more like a native village than anything one would find in England. There were half a dozen low, round huts — all of them built of stone and roughly thatched. There were no signs of life, but there was a large pile of ash in the centre of the camp that must have been the source of that fire we’d seen the previous day.

I signalled to the others and they joined me.

“Well, Reeves, what do you make of it?” I whispered.

“Most interesting, sir. It appears to be an ancient hut circle.”

We watched the huts for a good minute. We didn’t see anyone, and we didn’t hear anyone. The only noise came from some baleful distant bird that didn’t sound too happy and wanted everyone to know it.

“Should we go down and investigate?” whispered Emmeline. “It looks deserted.”

“I think we should announce ourselves first,” I said. “We don’t want to startle anyone. Especially Selden. He might be hungry.”

I stood up. “What ho. Anyone there?”

No answer.

I tried again.

“Roderick Baskerville-Smythe, here, paying a neighbourly visit. Anyone at home?”

Still no answer.

“I don’t think anyone’s in,” I said to Reeves and Emmeline.

We waited a further ten seconds, and then began our slow descent into the camp. Reeves, cradling the shotgun, brought up the rear.

No one came out to greet us. I couldn’t see anyone inside any of the huts either, not that I approached that close, but I could see some way inside through the low open doorways.

“Hello,” said Emmeline. “We mean no harm. Is anyone here?”

A figure appeared from behind one of the huts. I thought he was a man at first — a beggar by his clothes — but as he approached I could tell he was an automaton.