The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (21 page)

He stopped ten yards short of us and spoke: “What you want?”

“Just paying a neighbourly visit,” I said. “Do you live here?”

“We done nothing wrong. We no trouble. You leave us alone.”

“We’re not here to make trouble,” said Emmeline. “We’re guests at Baskerville Hall out for a walk.”

“Best go home now, milady,” said the automaton, bowing his head. “Forget you see us.”

“Is it just you living here?” I asked, looking around. “Or are there others?”

“Best you go home, sir. Mire dangerous place.”

“May I enquire, sir,” said Reeves, putting down his gun and stepping forward. “How you manage to keep your pressure operating within acceptable parameters?”

“Please go home, sir,” said the automaton. “We no trouble to anyone.”

“They have their own boiler if it’s any business of yours,” said a second figure stepping out from behind one of the other huts. This one was no automaton. I could tell by the orange tint to his complexion that this chap was a recently reanimated promethean. Reanimators like to lard their prometheans with generous applications of ReVitaCorpse — the ultimate treatment for dry, mouldering skin — to aid regeneration. It also turns them orange for about a month.

“We’re only curious,” said Emmeline. “And we’ll keep your camp secret. We’re very good at keeping secrets.”

“Do you usually take a gun with you when you pay social calls?” asked the promethean.

“Only when there are cannibals about,” said Emmeline. “Have you seen Selden?”

The promethean sneered at Emmeline. “Go back to your own kind. Leave
our
kind alone.”

“I am an automaton,” said Reeves. “I
am
of your kind.”

The promethean laughed derisively. “You are no automaton, sir. Do you expect us to believe they let an automaton carry a gun?”

It was then that Reeves did something dashed odd. He grabbed hold of both his ears, gave them a good twist, and steam shot out of both nostrils! I’d never been so disconcerted, and yet strangely entertained at the same time.

“My God,” said the promethean. “You
are
an automaton.”

That seemed to break the ice. Five more automata emerged from their hiding places to peer and, in a few cases, to poke at Reeves, who seemed to be regretting his nasal party piece.

“Would you please not do that. Or that.”

“What model are you?” asked one of the newcomers. “You look human.”

“My origin is a mystery,” said Reeves.

“We think he was made by Babbage himself,” said Emmeline.

That impressed the automata.
Babbage? Really?

“There is no evidence to link my creation to Mr Babbage, miss.”

“Who else was experimenting with automata in the 1860s? Or had the skill to make something as superior as you?” said Emmeline.

“
Forty
years old?” said an incredulous automaton.

“Possibly thirty-six. I do have vague memories of 1869, but from 1890 I spent fourteen years locked in a cupboard. The prolonged loss of power resulted in the destruction of most of my early memories.”

“You were locked in a cupboard for fourteen years, brother?” said the promethean. “And
still
you serve them?”

“It was this gentleman here who rescued me from my predicament,” said Reeves. “I am a free automaton now, receiving a regular wage.”

Not all the automata had the facial wherewithal to smile, but those that could beamed in my direction — a few of them in a strangely lopsided manner. I rather had the impression that these were a band of feral automata. One heard stories of such things — escapees and cast-outs banding together in the sewers or what have you — but rarely had any been seen.

“I’m a suffragette,” said Emmeline. “I believe in votes for all. Men, women, automata, prometheans.”

Our bona fides as friendly personages established, I deemed it safe to cast the occasional glance at their feet. All were wearing shoes or boots, not a single cloven hoof amongst them.

I was right about the automatons being feral though. Their leader told me they’d been living on the moor for six months, rebelling against enforced servitude and the 140-hour working week. They had their own boiler, but they could never find enough dry wood to keep it going for long. A few prometheans had joined their number too, but had difficulty finding sufficient food.

“The servants in the nearby houses have been very good to us,” said the promethean. “Some let us use their steam outlets at night, and sometimes they leave old clothes out for us, and the prometheans at Quarrywood leave food out for me now and then, but ... there’s never quite enough.”

“Couldn’t you work at Quarrywood?” I asked.

“That’s why I came here, but ... have you seen what they do to my kind at Quarrywood? They chop off our limbs for entertainment! Can you credit that? I truly do not know what I’ll do next. I may have to go abroad.”

“Won’t your family help you?” asked Emmeline.

“They won’t have anything to do with me. My own house is barred to me! My fortune divided up. Even my friends cut me when they saw me in the street. I should never have sought reanimation.”

“Life be hard here,” said one of the automata. “But we be free.”

I thought it time to broach the question. “Is there a promethean here with cloven feet?”

“Why do you ask?” said the promethean, his manner turning decidedly suspicious.

“Curiosity,” I said. “I thought I saw one the other evening and couldn’t work out why anyone would choose to have their feet replaced with cloven ones.”

“She didn’t choose. And she’s not a promethean. She’s an automaton.”

Well, that surprised me. “She has mechanical cloven feet?”

“It’s an abomination,” said the promethean. “Her master thought it would be fun for his guests if he had a half woman, half fawn maid serve tea. Lottie was mortified.”

“Lottie?” I asked.

“The automaton with the cloven feet. She begged her master to change her back and he laughed at her. So she ran away.”

“She always wears a long dress to hide her shame,” said one of the female automata. “Even though the mud makes it heavy to wear.”

“I think I saw her in a black dress,” said Emmeline. “It looked very pretty. Has she always had it?”

“She found it yesterday morning. Servants at the Hall left it on the gate for us. They’re very good to us.”

“Do the servants at the Hall leave milk out for you?” I asked.

The promethean looked surprised. “I’ve never thought to look. I always go to Quarrywood. Are they leaving food out at the Hall?”

“I saw a bowl of milk left by the mire gate last night,” I said.

“I see it, too,” said another of the automata. “Never see food there before.”

Well, I could see now why the path across the mire to the Hall was such a well-trodden one. Nightly visits from half a dozen automata looking for a steam top-up.

“Do you all visit the Hall every night?” I asked.

“You ask a lot of questions,” said the promethean.

“Curiosity again, I’m afraid. There’s been some rummy goings on over at the Hall and I was rather hoping you could help me out. Did anyone see anything unusual these last two nights? Some of you might know Pasco — one of the automata at the Hall. He was murdered two nights ago.”

That shocked them.

“He dead?”

“I thought he sent to Quarrywood.”

“I thought he escape.”

“You think it’s one of us, don’t you?” said the promethean. “I should have known!”

“No, we don’t,” said Emmeline. “We’re asking everybody. We’re treating Pasco’s murder with the same importance as if he’d been human.”

“Is this right?” they asked Reeves.

“It is correct,” said Reeves. “We believe someone at the Hall killed Pasco two nights ago. They didn’t switch him off. They damaged his turbines and ensured his memories were destroyed.”

“Luddmen!” said one of the automata. “Luddmen here!”

All the automata started talking at once. I’d never seen such a panicked bunch.

I looked at Reeves. “Luddmen?”

“It is a name given to gangs of individuals violently opposed to automata, sir. They have been known to attack automata factories, and also harass and murder automata on the street.”

“We not safe if Luddmen here! We must go deeper into moor.”

“You’re safe!” said Emmeline. “There aren’t any Luddmen here. Pasco wasn’t killed because he was an automaton.”

“Why he killed then?”

“Because someone tricked him into pretending to be a ghost,” I said. “And then needed to get rid of him to make sure he never told anyone who put him up to it.”

“You talk in riddles, sir,” said the promethean. “Why would anyone want Pasco to pretend to be a ghost?”

“Because there’s an old legend that a ghost appears the night before the head of the Baskerville-Smythe family dies,” I said. “Pasco’s murderer wanted to give everyone a fright.”

“Did any of you see Pasco the night he was killed?” asked Emmeline.

No one said they had.

“He would have looked a bit odd,” I said. “They’d painted his face to make it glow and he might have been wearing a dress.”

Still nothing, except a tut or two from the promethean. “What is the matter with the people in that house?” he said. “They demean prometheans. They demean automata. Have they no shame?”

“Do you ever see any of Stapleford’s automata at the Hall?” asked Emmeline.

Another flurry of no’s and shaken heads.

“Do any of you toddle off to Stapleford’s cottage for steam?” I asked. “Must be closer than going to the Hall.”

“Sometimes,” said a couple of automata. I didn’t know if it was our barrage of questions wearing out our welcome, or the mention of Stapleford, but I sensed a growing reluctance to talk.

“We don’t trust Stapleford,” said the promethean. “Or his automata. Did
he
tell you we were here?”

“No,” I said. “Does he know you’re here?”

“His automata do,” said the promethean. “And they are fiercely loyal to him.”

“Stapleford is good man,” said one of the female automata. “He kind to automata.”

“He not! He experiment on automata,” said her companion.

“No. He make repair. He improve them.”

“He take Annie!”

“Annie?” I asked.

“An automaton that went missing last month,” said the promethean. “Some say Stapleford took her for spare parts, others say she took a wrong step in the mire.”

“She
know
the mire,” said a female automaton. “She would never take wrong step.”

It was at that moment I noticed movement on the path at the top of the slope, and turned.

The cloven-footed woman!

She stood, for a moment transfixed, staring at us, and then turned and legged it back to the mire.

Emmeline, Reeves and I shot after her.

“Stop!” shouted Emmeline. “We only want to talk!”

Lottie did not stop. She hitched up her dress and flew into the mire. Ten seconds later she’d disappeared into the fog.

We stood on the bank staring after her.

“That was Theodosia’s dress,” said Emmeline. “Or a very good copy.”

Twenty

returned to the hut circle to ask the automata to give Lottie a message when she returned, but found the encampment deserted. Our pursuit of Lottie had evidently rattled them.

“Please tell Lottie we mean her no harm,” I shouted into the swirling mist.

And then we left, retracing our path back to Stapleford’s cottage. I had hoped that Lottie might have doubled back to the encampment by way of the mire exit at Stapleford’s gate, but she hadn’t. We checked the soft earth on the mire’s edge and none of the prints were hers.

“Do you think that could be true?” said Emmeline. “That Lottie found Theodosia’s dress on the mire gate?”

I thought about it for a while, but my early morning vim had started to fade. I was in need of a good lunch and a replenishing cocktail — preferably two.

“If one were searching for a cunning way to dispose of evidence and cast suspicion on a third party, miss, then leaving the dress on the mire gate would be an efficacious stratagem. It would also indicate that the person depositing the dress knew the servants were in the habit of leaving clothes out.”

“Another servant, you mean?” I said .

“Or someone who had learned of the practice, sir.”

“Like Stapleford?” asked Emmeline. “If his automata are fiercely loyal, I bet they tell him everything.
And
he could send them out at night to spy for him.”

“Indeed, miss. It is also possible that Miss Lottie made the story up. She is, after all, the person who was found standing over Sir Robert’s body.”

“Lupin was there too, Reeves,” I said. “And you can’t tell me he doesn’t know what goes on in the Hall grounds at night. He sees all, Reeves. He lurks and he observes.”

“Indeed, sir, but he doesn’t talk. The person who ordered Pasco to play the part of the ghost would have needed the power of speech.”

I hadn’t thought of that.

~

Our next stop was the studio. Emmeline was convinced there would be a seamstress there who’d run up the dress for our mystery killer, and I wanted to have a word with Stapleford about his American automaton.