The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (29 page)

“Talking of enthusiasm,” I said. “If I’m going to be on top form for tomorrow’s rope scene, I’ll need my eight hours. I shall bid you all a goodnight.”

“Very sensible,” said Henry. “I don’t think I’ll stay much longer either. One needs a clear head to climb down a cliff that high.”

I nipped back to my room, grabbed my coat and then sauntered down the back stairs. Sauntering is the gait of choice of the consulting detective when wishing to give the impression of the innocent abroad. A chap up to no good creeps or darts. He never saunters.

I reached the back door — which was thankfully devoid of all gun-wielding footmen — and opened the door to the hallway a smidgen. All clear. So, out I nipped and executed a brisk saunter to the library door and slipped inside.

I lurked behind a bookcase, waiting in the darkness for the others to arrive. Emmeline was first, followed five minutes later by Henry.

I unlatched the window and carefully opened it, while Henry grabbed the gun he’d stashed behind a cabinet earlier that evening.

We were ready. The cliff top beckoned. Owls hooted encouragement. And out we climbed into a still moonlit night.

“Follow me,” I said. “The trick is to avoid open spaces.”

We’d barely walked one hundred yards when I saw movement up ahead. Someone was coming up the Yew Walk!

I flattened myself against the old stable block. Was it one of the feral automata coming for a top up?

It was not. It was Berrymore!

We watched him tack across the back lawn. When he reached the back door, he stopped and looked furtively left and right before opening the door a crack, peering within, and slipping inside.

“What’s he up to?” whispered Emmeline.

“I’ll soon find out,” said Henry, striding forward.

I grabbed Henry by the arm. “No, not yet. We need to see Reeves first. If Berrymore’s frayed the rope, it’ll help if we have a witness. He’ll try to brazen it out otherwise — they always do — making up some story about checking the grounds for Selden before locking up for the night.”

Henry reluctantly agreed. “Well, if you’re sure...”

We crossed the back lawn, using the hedge for cover, following it around to the Yew Walk. From there we proceeded cautiously.

“Get ready to dive into the copse if you spot anyone,” I whispered.

As it happened we didn’t encounter anyone on the Yew Walk, but we did see a large bowl of milk.

“That wasn’t there this afternoon,” said Emmeline. “And it’s full. There must be nearly a whole quart in there.”

“I don’t understand,” said Henry. “There was a bowl of milk under my father’s body. What the devil does it mean?”

“It’s possible someone at the Hall is feeding Selden,” I said.

“What?” said Henry. “Do you think it’s Morrow?”

“Or Berrymore,” I said. “We did just see him come from the Yew Walk.”

“But why?” said Henry.

I shrugged.

“It might be drugged,” said Emmeline. “Berrymore might be trying to catch Selden.”

“Then why not tell me?” said Henry. “I’d have helped. It sounds a capital idea. No reason to creep about at the dead of night.”

Of course there was also the possibility that someone was trying to lure Selden to the Hall for some other reason — like becoming the scapegoat for the Baskerville-Smythe murders.

We continued our trek. A friendly crescent moon shone brightly from high in the southern sky allowing us to see for miles. Even the mire appeared clear of fog. One could make out the silhouette of the high moor in the distance.

And we were alone. I didn’t spot one skulking figure or hastily dampened lamp on the entire journey to the cliff top.

“Reeves? Are you here?” I said in a loudish whisper.

“I am, sir,” said Reeves, rising from behind a bush.

“Have you seen anything?”

“Not yet, sir. I believe Sergeant Stock and four of his warders may be at the studio. They arrived earlier and I have not seen them leave.”

“What are they doing at the studio?” asked Henry.

“I do not know, sir. I observed them call at the studio’s main house and disappear within, but they were too far away for me to hear what was said on the doorstep when the footman admitted them.”

“Has Berrymore been here?” asked Emmeline.

“Not that I have observed, miss.”

“And how’s the rope, Reeves? Everything oojah-cum-spiff and unsullied?”

“The rope has not been touched, sir.

I had a look nonetheless. Gave it a good tug and declared it as fine a specimen of the ropemaking arts as I’d ever seen.

Reeves coughed. “If I may suggest, sir, I think it would be prudent if we concealed ourselves.”

I found the spot I’d earmarked during our morning reconnoitre. There was room to sit down, a stout rocky face to lean back on, and there were several of those leggy gorse bushes that can hide a chap from view while, at the same time, providing plenty of gaps to look through.

Emmeline’s spot was on the other side of the rock. I had a good view towards the Hall and the mire, and Emmeline looked out on High Dudgeon Farm and the open moor to the north.

After thirty minutes the Worcester enthusiasm began to wane somewhat. The night was colder than I’d expected. I hadn’t brought gloves. My back had begun to ache. And nothing was moving on the moor.

Time dragged. The moon ambled across the sky, and dew began to form on my clothes. Then, at around two o’clock, Emmeline spoke.

“Did you see that?” she whispered from her side of the rock.

“See what?” I whispered back.

“A light from High Dudgeon Farm.”

I leaned forward as far as I could and peered towards Stapleford’s cottage. I could just about see the outline of the house and buildings, but I couldn’t see any light.

“It’s gone now, but I definitely saw it,” said Emmeline. “It shone for a good two seconds.”

I watched the farm a little longer, but saw nothing. A little later I thought I saw movement on the mire. It was difficult to make out with any certainty — the mire was over a mile away — and I may have imagined it.

I didn’t imagine the figure on the track twenty minutes later though. They were walking along the track to the quarry. Too far away to recognise but, from the outline, it wasn’t a tree or wearing a long black dress.

I watched transfixed, right up to the moment the gun went off.

Twenty-Seven

gunshot was accompanied by a series of shouts from the quarry.
Over there! Stop him! Get him, boys!

The figure on the track stopped dead, then hurried to a rock and crouched down behind it.

The cries from the quarry intensified.
He’s making a run for it! Get the horses! Stop or I’ll shoot!

Emmeline crawled around the rock to join me. “What’s going on? Do you think we should go and look?” she whispered.

I was torn. Had Sergeant Stock and his warders spotted another suspect? They couldn’t have seen the figure on the track. But had the murderer outsmarted us? Let us think he’d arrive at the cliff top via the track when, all the time, he’d been shinning up the rope from the quarry?

”Stay here, Emmie,” I whispered. “Keep an eye on the chap on the track. I’ll see what’s going on at the quarry.”

I crawled from my hiding place, until I put my left hand on a particularly sharp piece of gorse and emitted a stifled bleat. After which, I gave up crawling and tried a touch of creeping, along with a modicum of tripping and light cursing.

Eventually I made it to the clearing by the rope where I saw Henry, crouching by the rock the rope was tied to.

“It’s Sergeant Stock and the warders,” whispered Henry. “They’re chasing someone.”

“Any idea who?”

“No. I haven’t dared look over the cliff in case one of the warders takes a pot-shot at me.”

I heard the sound of hooves from below, then galloping. It sounded like several horses. And then another gunshot.
Come down from there! You’ll not get another warning!

The rope in front of us juddered. Someone — or something — was coming up the rope. Fast.

Henry gripped his gun. I stared at the spot on the cliff edge where the rope disappeared. And froze.

One often reads in books about chaps having their hearts leap into their mouths. Utter rot, I’d thought. Reeves would know, but I rather fancied the lungs would get in the way. But when the contorted face of Selden suddenly appeared over that cliff edge, I can tell you that half a ventricle shot past my tonsils.

And that was the only part of me that moved.

It’s all very well for people like Reeves saying stuff like ‘Don’t frighten him’ and ‘Keep calm and he’ll go away.’ But Reeves had a gun and was hiding behind a bush. While I was face to face with a cannibal who could eat a policeman between meals!

Selden growled and sprang onto the cliff top. Henry fell over backwards, discharging his gun as he fell, endangering one of the lesser constellations.

Selden growled again. His face was half man, half panther. His clothes were shredded. His body bulged in places no tailor would countenance.

And all that stood between him and the open moor was Worcester R.

And, all of a sudden, Reeves. For, at that direst of moments, that stout fellow materialised at the young master’s shoulder. Which was just what the troops needed.

“Show him your gun, Reeves,” I said, feeling considerably emboldened.

“I left it behind the bush, sir.”

I may have bleated, or it might have been the sound of ventricle striking tonsil. How could Reeves have left his gun behind at a moment like this!

Selden hissed at us. And snarled, and spread his fingers wide, scratching at the air in a menacing fashion.

To which, Reeves replied by tossing an object onto the ground between us and Selden.

My first thought was ‘bomb.’ I didn’t have any second thoughts. ‘Bomb’ pretty much cleared out the Worcester locker.

And I would have dived for cover, if my feet and lower jaw hadn’t been nailed to the ground by shock.

Then something rather rummy happened. Selden stopped snarling. His ears pricked. He sniffed the air three times. Then he pounced upon the object, biting it, chewing it, rubbing his face in it, rolling on it and raking it with his toes. I’d never seen a happier cannibal. He appeared completely oblivious to everything else around him.

“Reeves?” I enquired.

“It is a large felt mouse stuffed with the leaves of
Nepeta cataria
, sir — commonly known as catnip. I noticed this morning, while in conversation with Trelawny the gardener, that he had a supply of catnip leaves that he used to dissuade aphids — particularly those of the green and the black variety—”

“Reeves, this is not the time for a treatise on aphids. There is a homicidal cannibal writhing on the ground within feet of us. Shouldn’t we do something?”

“I would counsel we wait and observe, sir. Catnip is known to induce drowsiness in certain felines.”

“He doesn’t look very drowsy,” said Henry, who’d surfaced from behind his rock to join us. “He looks frenzied.”

“The drowsiness comes later, sir. The initial reaction is one of great excitement, and single-mindedness.”

Selden was certainly single-minded. He rolled. He chewed. He purred and growled. He didn’t even react when four burly warders came running over to join us.

“What you done to him?” asked the first to arrive.

“We have distracted him, officer,” said Reeves. “Another five minutes and the catnip should induce feelings of drowsiness. It should then be safe to handcuff him.”

We watched and waited. Selden was definitely slowing down, and had begun to drool.

Emmeline arrived midway through the drooling.

“Good heavens,” she said. “What
have
you done to Selden?”

I explained, omitting all mention of ventricles and Henry’s unprovoked attack on the Crab Nebula. We were three brave citizens who, armed only with a felt mouse, had faced down a deranged homicidal cannibal.

I repeated the story a minute later for a puffing Sergeant Stock, who had obviously eschewed horseback once more to chase Selden on foot.

“Beg pardon, gents, miss,” said Sergeant Stock. “But ... what be you all doing here? ’Tis nearly three.”

It was only then that I remembered the figure on the track!

“Emmie ... Lily, I mean, what happened to the chap on the track?”

“He left soon after you did. He was definitely up to no good though. He didn’t walk back along the track. He skulked, hunching over as he ran, and stopped every now and then to look back.”

I explained our trap to Sergeant Stock and I could tell he was impressed.

“We’m be doing the same at the quarry, sir. We had word Selden be a-hanging around there at night. He be a quick one though. We thought we had him when he sprang our trap, but he tore off like a good ’un. If you like I can spare a couple of men to look for your man. Shouldn’t take long to search the track on horseback. He couldn’t have travelled far.”

We took Sergeant Stock up on his offer. I didn’t hold out too much hope, but what else was there? After all the shouting, galloping and gunfire, no one was going to see the cliff top as a quiet place where one could fray a rope unobserved.