The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (25 page)

Emmeline and I climbed a ladder into the loft. There was a good deal of loose hay piled up. And the loft only extended over half the stable block, so we had a pretty good view of the floor below. All in all, an excellent place to hide for a couple of hours.

“We’ll have to rearrange the hay a little if we’re not going to be seen,” said Emmeline.

“We could always lie down and cover ourselves with it,” I said.

“What
are
you suggesting, Mr Worcester?” said Emmeline, putting on her Lady Julia voice.

“Camouflage, Miss Dreadnought. My motives are pure.”

“Not too pure, I hope.”

I coughed, Reeves being otherwise engaged.

~

Everything was in place. Emmeline, Reeves and I were to meet by the back door just before eight. We’d use the servants’ staircase to avoid the others, and I’d have a word with Henry beforehand to explain our impending absence from the dinner table. He’d tell the others that Emmeline and I were poorly, and had retired to our rooms to read improving books.

As plans went, this one was foolproof, and Reeves had barely a hand in it!

The first crack in the plan came when Henry suggested he came along too. As head of the household he felt it was only right. If anyone was going to beard his father’s killer it should be him. I could see the hayloft giving way under the weight of onlookers. If Henry came along, Ida would follow. Which meant her father as well, which, in turn, would pique the interest of the other dinner guests and they’d all down forks and traipse out to the stable block to see what all the fuss was about.

A firm hand was required.

“It’s possible the murderer — the chap who gave Lottie the blowpipe and ordered her to do the deed — will be present at the dinner table tonight,” I said. “We can’t let them know anything is afoot. And three of us absent from the dinner table would do just that.”

Henry reluctantly agreed.

The second crack in the plan came just as we were about to set out. Reeves and I were loitering by the back door, checking our pocket watches and muttering. Well, I was muttering. Reeves doesn’t mutter. He disapproves of it strongly.

“Perhaps I should attempt to locate Miss Emmeline, sir?” he said as I added pacing to the muttering.

Off he went. And back he came five minutes later with disturbing news.

“Miss Emmeline is taking dinner, sir.”

“What?”

“Dinner, sir. She is seated next to Lady Julia.”

I began to harbour grave doubts about my ears. “Did you say Emmeline’s in the dining room ... with Lady Julia?”

“With everyone, sir. She is seated between Lady Julia and Mr Stapleford. She appears somewhat disquieted, sir.”

I gasped. “Do they have a gun on her?

“Not that I observed, sir.”

I was baffled. Emmeline wouldn’t miss a sleuthing engagement. “Has she left a note, Reeves? Slipped it under my door perhaps?”

“No, sir. She didn’t leave a note in her room either.”

Well this was rummy. “What do you make of it, Reeves? Is she in danger?”

“I find it hard to believe that anyone would attempt anything untoward in a room full of witnesses, sir.”

The more I thought about it, the more I thought that this had to be some attempt to divert us from our apprehension of Lottie.

“We must stick with our plan, Reeves. Questioning Lottie is the priority.”

~

Reeves and I hid in the hayloft. I chose a spot by the ladder where I could lie down and see the steam hose. Reeves sat on a bale out of sight at the back, adamant that lying down played havoc with his gyroscopes, and that hay and a pressed suit did not mix. I had more progressive views on hay and loftwear and covered myself with the stuff.

An age passed. Silas, the under gardener with all the pruning and mowing attachments, was there, keeping the boiler well-fired. Every now and then he’d motor over to the furnace carrying a log, toss it in, and give the fire a good riddle. I assumed he must have topped himself up earlier, though I couldn’t see where his belly button was — not having an obvious belly.

Then the door creaked open and I froze, not daring to breathe as I waited for the figure to come into view.

It wasn’t Lottie. It was one of the other feral automata. He connected himself up to the steam hose and I looked away.

Another age passed. This time I didn’t dare move in case he spotted me. It was dark and I was covered in hay, but there was some light coming from the furnace, and I was worried that any rustling sound might carry. The only other sound was the occasional crackle from the furnace and the gentle hiss of the steam hose.

Eventually he left and I took the opportunity to have a little shuffle and scratch the odd itch. I’d begun to harbour doubts that I was alone in the hay — suspecting that half of Devonshire’s beetles were nestling up beside me.

Then the door opened again, accompanied this time by a swishing sound, and the unmistakable silhouette of Lottie in her long black dress.

Twenty-Three

plan had been to wait until Lottie had connected herself to the steam hose before springing from our hiding place and barring the door. But that involved watching Lottie unfasten her dress somewhat, a task which Emmeline was to have undertaken. I decided to avert my eyes and count to one hundred instead.

On one hundred and one, I sprang like a well-dressed tiger and flew down the ladder.

Lottie screamed.

“Don’t be alarmed,” I said, as she struggled to disconnect herself from the steam hose.

“We mean you no harm, Miss Lottie,” said Reeves appearing by the top of the ladder. ”Mr Baskerville-Smythe desires to ask you a few questions. That is all.”

“That’s right,” I said. “It won’t take long then you’re free to go.”

Lottie succeeded in freeing herself from the hose and turned to face me. “I’m not going to Quarrywood! I’ve seen what you did to Annie. I’ll
die
before you turn me into a giant octopus!”

“We wouldn’t dream of turning anyone into a giant octopus, would we, Reeves?”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said. “Stand aside and let me pass ... or ... or I’ll open the furnace and burn this place down.”

This was not going as well as I’d hoped.

“Do that thing with your ears, Reeves.”

“No, sir.”

I have to say I was disappointed in Reeves’ lack of feudal spirit. Would Watson have refused Holmes’ request to blow steam from his nose? I think not.

“No need for fires, Lottie,” I said. “Reeves here is an automaton too, and I’ve never turned him into any kind of octopus — not even a small one — have I, Reeves?”

“No, sir. We are guests at the Hall, miss. We have no connection to Quarrywood, and desire only information as to what occurred in the vicinity of the mire gate yesterday evening.”

That seemed to calm her down a little.

“What’s that got to do with me?” she asked.

“We saw you there last night,” I said. “Standing over the body—”

“I didn’t kill him! He was dead already. I saw him fall and ran over to help.”

“Did you see how he died?” I asked.

“He had a heart attack, didn’t he? He was running back to the Hall and suddenly fell.”

“We know about the blowpipe, Lottie,” I said.

“What blowpipe?”

It was too dark to see her face that well — and it’s always difficult to judge an automaton’s reactions — but I didn’t get the impression from her voice that she was lying.

“I think it best to commence from the beginning, miss,” said Reeves. “How did you come by the black dress you’re wearing?”

“I didn’t steal it! I found it hanging on the mire gate two nights ago.”

“Was there a note with it?” I asked.

“No.”

“Did you see who left the dress on the gate?”

“No. It was the middle of the night when I found it.”

“Was there a reason you were at the mire gate last night at precisely eight of the clock, miss?” asked Reeves.

“I needed to top up my pressure.”

“But why not wait until dark, miss?” said Reeves. “Were you not more likely to be seen at such an early hour?”

“It was foggy. And the family dine at eight. No one should have been about.”

“What did you observe when you reached the mire gate, miss?”

“I saw
him
— the man who died — he was waiting by the gate. I don’t think he saw me. I ducked down the moment I noticed him.”

“Was he alone?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“He walked back inside the grounds. I wasn’t certain he’d left, so I waited a while, then I ran to a gap in the hedge by the mire gate where you can see into the Hall grounds without being seen. He hadn’t gone. He was on the path. Waiting.”

“Did you see anyone else?” I asked.

“No. He was alone.”

“Then what happened?”

“He suddenly cried out and clutched his neck.”

“Which way was he facing when he cried out, miss?”

“Towards the gate, I think.”

“You say you didn’t see anyone,” I said. “But what about an orang-utan? He might have been hiding in the wood close to the spot where Sir Robert cried out?”

“I didn’t see the ape. I’ve seen him on other occasions though. We all have. He’s often in here at night. He watches us.”

“Did you see or hear
anything
unusual in that area of woodland close to where Sir Robert cried out, miss?”

Lottie paused a good long while.

“You’ll think me crazy,” she said.

“I very much doubt it,” I said. “Reeves and I have seen the most extraordinary things. Nothing you say can surprise us.”

“I saw a tree move,” said Lottie. “Or maybe a bush. I know it’s crazy, but as soon as Sir Robert dropped his gun and started to run back to the Hall, I saw it move.”

“Move as in sway?” I asked.

“No. Move as in walk. It was quite swift. It went deeper into the woods and disappeared into the fog. Sir Robert had fallen by then. I went to see if I could help, but he’d stopped breathing, and then you appeared, and I ran off.”

A lesser man may have boggled at the mention of a tree being implicated in a murder, but not Reginald Worcester.

“Would you recognise this tree if you saw it again?” I asked.

“I think it was yew.”

“Me?”

“No, yew.”

“You think it was Reeves?”

Reeves coughed. “I think Miss Lottie was referring to the tree belonging to the genus
taxus
, sir. Commonly referred to as the yew tree.”

“Ah.”

“That’s right. It was about six feet tall and conical in appearance.”

“Any distinguishing branches?”

Reeves coughed. I think this tree business had unnerved him.

“Most odd,” I said. “Can one reanimate a tree, Reeves, and turn it homicidal?”

“Unlikely, sir. I rather—”

“I wouldn’t be so dismissive, Reeves. A year ago I would have cast scorn upon anyone suggesting a deceased relative could be brought back to life. Or a pig reassembled from prime parts of deceased porkers. But we’ve seen both, Reeves. Why not a tree?”

“I think a simpler answer is that a person was disguising themselves as a tree, sir.”

“Ah. No need for an identity parade of suspicious conifers then?”

“No, sir.”

“Did this tree you saw have legs?” I asked.

“I didn’t see any. Its branches brushed the ground. I couldn’t see how it moved. I’ve seen so many strange creations at Quarrywood and here at the Hall that I didn’t know what to think.”

“Quite. See, Reeves? One shouldn’t disregard a tree if a likely motive turns up. I know I’d cut up rough if someone tried to give me a bit of a prune.”

“Indeed, sir. If I may, I’d like to ask Miss Lottie some questions regarding Mr Stapleford.”

“Ask away, Reeves.”

“I don’t have anything to do with him,” said Lottie. “He sees us as machines for his amusement. He’s the one who took Annie and turned her into that ...
octopus!
”

“Have you ever met any of his household automata, miss?”

“No. I’ve seen them on the moor. Some of them have come to our camp, but I keep my distance. They work for their master and they know
exactly
what he does. They aid him, I’m sure.”

“Have you heard of Falconbridge, his American automaton, miss?”

“No.”

Reeves’ question gave me an idea. “You speak very well for an automaton, Lottie,” I said. “Were you made in America by any chance?”

“No, I am a lady’s maid by manufacture. I am programmed for conversation.”

Our questions exhausted, we left Lottie to avail herself of the steam outlet and headed back to the Hall. We were in mid-ankle when I noticed it — a black shape on the wall of the south wing.

I stopped and goggled. There was enough light from the moon to see that the black shape was a woman in a long black dress. And she was climbing down the very rope we’d seen earlier tied around the chimney stack. In the very spot that Pasco had climbed down two nights earlier!

It had to be another Theodosia. The time was right. I checked my pocket watch. It was just after midnight. And here was our chance to apprehend this latest ‘ghost’ and find out who put them up to it.