The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (26 page)

“Come on, Reeves,” I whispered. “Time to bag us a ghost.”

Twenty-Four

was ready to spring when the ghost turned and...

“Emmie?”

“Reggie, what are you doing here? Have you caught Lottie yet?”

“Never mind what I’m doing here. What are you doing climbing down a rope disguised as a ghost? Did Stapleford make you do it?”

“What
are
you talking about?” said Emmeline. “Oh! The black dress. That’s Lady Julia’s fault. She insisted I wear black to dinner. She came to my room when I was leaving to join you, and made me change into full mourning! I couldn’t get away. She left her maid with me to make sure there wasn’t an inch of me not covered in black crepe. I’ve only just managed to escape. I was sure she’d have told the footmen to bar the doors to me so I came via the roof. Have I missed anything?”

I was in awe.

“Weren’t you worried climbing down from such a height?” I asked.

“Not at all. If a murderer can do it, so can I. And if I had fallen and died, at least I was dressed for it. Now, what news of Lottie?”

I told Emmeline all.

“Do you believe her?” asked Emmeline.

“I do,” I said. “What about you, Reeves?”

“I think a person wishing to fabricate a story, sir, would have chosen a more credible one.”

Sneaking Emmeline back into the house was but the work of a moment for a seasoned heart attack feigner like myself. As soon as Witheridge unlocked the back door I stumbled inside, clutched the old ticker and did the full swoon, with pirouette, onto the flagstones. Reeves sent Witheridge to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, and Emmeline beetled past us and up the servants’ staircase.

I didn’t stay up much longer myself. I found Henry, gave him the potted highlights of my meeting with Lottie, and headed upstairs.

~

I was already awake when Reeves arrived with the early morning oolong.

“Anything to report, Reeves?” I asked as he drew back the curtains.

“Sergeant Stock and his warders arrived before breakfast, sir. Apparently the River Angst is now fordable and a temporary bridge is expected to be completed later today.”

“Where’s the sergeant now? He’s not rounding up the local mad scientists, I hope?”

“No, sir. The sergeant and his men are currently patrolling the local area. I believe they intend to search every barn, shepherd’s hut, thicket and outbuilding within three miles of the Hall.”

I took a long sip of the bracing oolong. I felt I needed to be fully braced before telling Reeves what I’d been musing over for the past fifteen minutes. When it comes to pouring cold water over other chap’s plans, Reeves was Jack Frost the Eskimo ice chandler.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday viz. Lupin not being able to talk.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Indeed, Reeves. What proof do we have that he can’t speak?”

“He’s an orang-utan, sir?”

“Ah, but is he an
ordinary
orang-utan? What if he’s a promethean like the Colossus of Blackwater? You remember the Colossus, Reeves? The giant pig assembled from the prime parts of prize-winning porkers?”

“I remember him well, sir.”

“Then you will recall that the Colossus could speak. We never worked out how or why, but somewhere in the process a Scotsman had been added to the mix. You see where I’m going with this, Reeves?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“The pig is not a species renowned for its repartee, Reeves.”

“No, sir.”

“One doesn’t go to the fat stock show to hear prime porkers recite poetry. Or perform duets from Gilbert and Sullivan.”

“No, sir.”

“And yet, we encountered one that could speak. If a pig, I say, why not an orang-utan?”

“Shall I lay out your clothes for breakfast, sir?”

“Reeves, you are changing the subject.”

“I apologise, sir. I find myself a little distracted.”

“Distracted, Reeves? It’s not your pressure, is it?”

“No, sir, I rather fear your life may be in danger.”

I nearly spilled my tea.

“What? Explain, Reeves.”

“I was considering the various motives for Sir Robert’s murder, sir. Now that we know the estate is entailed, the question of
cui bono
is clearer. Sir Henry is the only beneficiary. But who inherits the estate should Sir Henry be killed?”

“Lady Julia?” I said.

“Lady Julia is not a blood relative, sir. And of the wrong gender to inherit the title.”

Who else was left? From my brief perusal of
Who’s Who
, the Baskerville-Smythe clan were pretty short on relatives above ground.

“Is there a suspicious third cousin looking to be considerably less removed than hitherto, Reeves?”

“According to the current edition of
Who’s Who
, sir, there is a second cousin twice removed. The Reverend Archibald Biggar of the parish of Blubberthorpe in the county of Yorkshire. But he is no longer Sir Henry’s heir.”

I sat up. “He’s dead?”

“No, sir. His position as heir was usurped two days ago ... by you, sir.”

“Me? But ... I’m not really Roderick.”

“Quite, sir, but only you, Miss Emmeline and I are cognisant of that fact. The murderer — be he Mr Edison, the Reverend Biggar, or whomsoever — will regard you as Sir Henry’s heir.”

I didn’t like this at all. Most of our theories cast Sir Henry as ‘next victim.’ Was I now his stand-in?

“This is bad, Reeves. Do you think I should start wearing a disguise?”

“No, sir. But I think a change in strategy is called for. Instead of following clues, I think we should endeavour to lay a trap.”

“You have a plan?”

“Not yet, sir. I have the bait, but little else.”

I quailed somewhat at the word ‘bait.’ Reeves’ plans were rather like icebergs — things of beauty, with large hazardous portions hidden below the surface.

“I’m not the bait, am I, Reeves?”

“No, sir. Sir Henry is. The problem, though, is finding a suitable trap. Ideally, we need to present the murderer with an opportunity to kill Sir Henry that is so enticing they cannot resist. We then lie in wait for the murderer to arrive and apprehend them before they can harm Sir Henry.”

I don’t know where Reeves finds these plans, but even half-formed, they are still things of beauty.

“It’s perfect, Reeves,” I said.

“I fear it may be impracticable, sir. With Sir Henry spending most of his day at Quarrywood and travelling back and forth in an open carriage, he presents an easy target. Especially as there is no shortage of guns. The footmen hand them out to everyone. With so many excellent opportunities to shoot Sir Henry and escape undetected, I fear it will be impossible to create the definitive opportunity that we require to entice our quarry into our trap.”

“Reeves,” I said, waving a dismissive hand. “Listen to the young master. You forget we are dealing with a criminal mastermind. Criminal masterminds don’t
shoot
anyone. That’s the realm of the
common
criminal. These are the uncommon ones. They’re theatrical. They use blowpipes and poison darts. They’re more likely to sabotage one of Henry’s scenes by smuggling in a real Lizard Man to fight him.”

“Lizard Men are not real, sir.”

“They’re not?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, something similar then — like switching a rubber dagger for the real thing.”

Reeves suddenly froze, not even an eyebrow twitched. His eyes stared, fixed on a point somewhere above my headboard. I wasn’t sure if he’d run out of steam or seen a spider.

“Reeves? Are you all right?”

Answer came there none.

I put down the oolong. And fought a momentary urge to reach forward and wiggle Reeves’ ears.

Fortunately, Reeves burst back into life — using the most refined and restrained definition of the word ‘burst’ — before any inappropriate ear-hand activity had occurred.

“I have it, sir,” he said, struggling manfully to regain control of his eyebrows. “Your suggestion of using a scene from Sir Henry’s moving picture has provided me with the answer.”

“It has?”

“It has, sir. The success of the plan depends upon three criteria being met. One, the opportunity presented to the murderer must be such that they cannot possibly ignore it. Two, news of the opportunity must be widely disseminated to make sure that all the suspects are aware of it. And, three, the locale where the sabotage is to take place must be both secluded enough to allow the murderer to feel safe, and yet provide sufficient cover for us to lie in wait.”

I have said it many times, but it bears repeating. The man is a genius. When Babbage was handing out little grey cells, he didn’t stint when he came to Reeves.

“What scene do you have in mind, Reeves?” I asked.

“A rope scene, sir. I believe it will satisfy all three criteria if we tie a rope to a stout tree on the cliff top overlooking Quarrywood, and throw it over the cliff for you and Sir Henry to climb down.”

“What? Wait a minute, Reeves. What am I doing on this rope?”

“Dangling, sir. In order for the plan to succeed we must ensure that the opportunity is such that the murderer could not possibly resist. The chance to sabotage the rope and kill both Sir Henry and yourself at the same time would, I think, be irresistible.”

“Reeves, have you slipped a cog? Any plan that involves Reginald Worcester dangling from a cliff top waiting for the rope to snap is a plan with a giant flaw.”

“Indeed, sir. But the plan is to catch the murderer in the act of fraying the rope or loosening the knot. Ergo you will never be on the rope. The rope scene is to be announced and prepared, but never enacted.”

“Run that past me again, Reeves.”

“Sir Henry will announce the new scene today, sir. I will spread the word amongst the servants, whilst you, Sir Henry and Miss Emmeline spread the word elsewhere. The rope will be tied to the tree this afternoon and left overnight ready for the scene to be played first thing tomorrow morning.”

I was beyond awe. It was the most perfect plan I’d ever heard. I’d have to give the cliff top a thorough reconnoitring first, but I couldn’t imagine there’d be a complete dearth of good sized rocks to hide behind. And the night would give us cover too.

“I’ll buttonhole Henry straight after breakfast,” I said.

~

Catching Henry on his own was not that easy. Ida was a veritable limpet. She sat next to him at breakfast and accompanied him upstairs when they left to get changed. I had to hang back and wait for her to turn off towards her room.

And hope Lady Julia didn’t emerge from the dining room. She’d been discussing food for the funeral with Mrs Berrymore so I thought I had a good minute or two.

Emmeline joined me on the stairs as I stood there pretending to look at a portrait. “Who are we following — Henry or Ida?” she whispered.

“Henry. Reeves has a plan.”

“I bet it’s a pip.”

“As Reeves would say. ‘It is the apis’s patellas.’”

We gave Ida another couple of seconds, then beetled after Henry. We caught up with him just as he was opening the door to his room.

“We have a plan, Henry,” I said. “And we need your help.”

I waited until the bedroom door was closed before spilling all about Reeves’s plan. I’d thought it perfect, but Henry wasn’t so sure.

“One can’t just slip in a new scene without adding some sort of context,” said Henry. “Audiences don’t like being confused. Why are we climbing down this rope?”

“To escape from ... a Lizard Man?” I suggested.

“That’ll work,” said Henry. “This Lizard Man... No, three Lizard Men have trapped us on the cliff top. We see the rope and start to climb down... No, I think we need more danger.”

“More danger than dangling from a rope two hundred feet off the ground?” I said.

“This is Quarrywood, Roderick. Our audiences expect bigger, better and scarier.”

“You could have a giant octopus suddenly appear at the bottom of the rope,” said Emmeline. “And three Lizard Men trying to chew through the rope at the top.”

“That’s more like it!” said Henry. “So we climb down the rope and throw ourselves on the giant octopus.”

“Who has a sword in each tentacle,” said Emmeline “Except the one he’s strangling Ida with.”

I had the feeling that Reeves — and possibly Ida — might disapprove of some of these later additions, but the essence of the plan was agreed. Henry would announce the new scene this morning and it would be the talk of the parish by lunchtime.

~

Emmeline shot off to her room to change out of her enforced mourning wear leaving me to head back to my room alone. As I toddled along a corridor flanked with the portraits of generations of Baskerville-Smythes, the Worcester brain began to stir.

I told Reeves the moment I bounced into the room.

“I’ve been thinking about inheritance, Reeves.”

“Indeed, sir?” said Reeves, who was busy ironing my shoelaces.

“A bit of a coincidence, don’t you think, that here we are looking at inheritance as a motive for murder when the parish is chock full of Baskerville-Smythe descendants? All that over-familiarity business.”