The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (31 page)

I paused to let my gaze swing around the room and give everyone a meaningful look. One has to take every opportunity one can to give the murderer’s blood a good chilling.

“You see,” I said. “It all started with the ghost.”

I gave them all the ripe stuff about Theodosia’s dress, the RadioGlo paint and Pasco.

“But wait,” I said. “I expect you’re all thinking ‘How could Pasco possibly have exited a first floor bedroom without a ladder?’ We all looked that night, didn’t we? He couldn’t have jumped, and there was nothing to climb down.”

I inserted a goodish long pause before continuing.

“Or was there? During the course of my investigation, I discovered, on the very roof of this Hall, a long rope tied around one of those Tudor chimneys. This rope, when tossed to the ground, passed by the very window that we found unlatched the night the ghost disappeared!”

That got a reaction. Not quite the one I’d been hoping for — ashen-faced fear from the guilty party — but more one of interest being piqued.

“There’s more,” I said. “This rope was not there when Henry and I looked out the window. Which means ...
someone
had to be up on the roof when the ghost was ankling across the landing.
Someone
who threw down the rope, waited for Pasco to climb down as instructed, and then hauled said rope back up.
That
person is the murderer.

“Now we come to Pasco’s murder. Why kill Pasco, you say? Why not switch the chap off?”

I paused for a swift slurp. All this public speaking was drying the Worcester mouth out.

“Where was I?”

“Talking about Pasco’s murder,” said Emmeline.

“That’s right. Why kill Pasco? Answer: because he was a dashed liability. He was the only chap who knew the identity of the murderer,
and
he had a green face. Remember what Dr Morrow said about that RadioGlo paint? It doesn’t come off easily. One could have scrubbed Pasco’s face for hours and still there’d have been splodges for all to see. And an under gardener with green splodges on his face that glow in the dark is going to attract attention. Questions will be asked, and Pasco, being a truthful chap, would tell all. Ergo, Pasco had to die. Switching off wouldn’t cut it. One could always switch him back on again. No, his head had to be bashed in to destroy his memories for good. And the murderer had to remove the head to stop us putting two and two together viz glowing green splodges and the ghost.”

“But why go to all the trouble of staging the ghost scene in the first place?” asked Henry. “It makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense to the murderer,” I said. “This murderer doesn’t think like you, Henry. They don’t see ‘unnecessary complication.’ They see ‘carefully crafted opening act.’ The ghost scene’s purpose was to create the impression that supernatural forces were abroad. That, and to muddy any investigation into Sir Robert’s death.”

Henry nodded, as did quite a few others, which made me feel pretty braced. The old
dénouement
was going down a dashed sight better than I’d feared. Lady J had stopped heckling, and Reeves hadn’t coughed once!

Time to break out the exhibits.

I trickled over to the breakfast buffet and took out the blowpipe I’d stowed earlier in the left-hand cupboard. I held it up for all to see.

“Behold, the murder weapon,” I said. “I found it on the rooftop next to that coil of rope I told you about.”

I handed it to Henry. “Do you notice anything odd about this blowpipe?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Henry. “I’ve never seen a blowpipe before in my life. It’s all odd.”

“Morrow?” I said. “Perhaps you’d take a look?”

I observed Morrow closely as he reluctantly took the blowpipe from Henry. Lady Agatha’s a firm believer that murderers are in a constant battle with their conscience. Confront them with the murder weapon and often they crack. ‘Watch for the bulging eye,’ she counsels. ‘The fevered brow. The frothing mouth. Guilt shall betray them for Conscience is mightier than the axe.’

Morrow looked a bit feverish, but not one eye bulged. “I don’t think I can help at all,” he said. “I’m a doctor, not an anthropologist.”

“What about you, Stapleford?” I asked.

I watched his face as the blowpipe was handed to him. He looked more curious than nervous. Unlike Morrow, who’d treated the blowpipe as a hot coal to be passed on as swiftly as poss, Stapleford examined the blowpipe carefully.

“That is odd,” he said. “The mouthpiece has been modified. A piece of metal with a screw thread has been pushed into the pipe.”

“And why would someone do that?” I asked.

He shrugged. “To attach it to something?”

“To attach it to something,” I repeated, gripping both lapels again and, feeling a little like one of those barrister chappies, I decided to eke out the moment by pacing a little this way and that. Building up the moment, don’t you know.

“Like an automaton?” I suggested.

That got in amongst them all. There was a good deal of muttering and drawing in of breath.

Stapleford took another look at the mouthpiece. “Possibly,” he said. “The gauge looks about right.”

“Shall we check?” I said. “Your automaton, Falconbridge, is here, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s over there.”

I was expecting Lady Julia to complain, and she hit her cue with gusto.

“There’s an
automaton
in the house? Henry, did you know about this?”

“I did, Aunt—”

“And you
allowed
this?”

“If it leads to father’s murderer being apprehended then, yes,” said Henry.

Lady Julia snorted and gave me the kind of look that the Geneva Convention had tried to outlaw in 1864. “I blame
you
for all this,” she said.

I took the blowpipe from Stapleford and handed it towards Falconbridge, who immediately looked to his master for guidance — presumably on whether to comply or beat me around the head with it.

“Do it, Falconbridge,” said Stapleford.

Falconbridge began to unbutton his shirt.

“What
is
he doing?” asked Lady Julia.

“I think the ladies should look away,” said T. Everett. “Ida, cover your eyes!”

“Dear God!” said Lady Julia. “Henry! Stop him this instant.”

“No,” said Henry. “I need to see this.”

I wasn’t quite sure where to look myself, but I waited until Falconbridge was ready, gave him the blowpipe, and stepped back. The servants to either side of him had stepped back too.

Falconbridge screwed the two-foot long blowpipe into place. It did look decidedly odd — as though the chap had had an altercation with Trelawny about runner beans and had been run through with a bamboo pole — but it fitted perfectly.

“How easy would it be for Falconbridge here to fire a poison dart at someone’s neck?” I asked Stapleford.

“With a little practice it wouldn’t be difficult. The internal steam pressure would be more than sufficient to expel the dart with the required force. The dart would have to be loaded before the blowpipe is screwed into place though. Firing multiple darts would take some time.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You may now remove the blowpipe, Falconbridge.”

Falconbridge showed no sign of complying. Instead he turned his body slightly so the blowpipe was pointing directly at me. And he smiled — a smile of the sickly and smug variety.

“Perhaps you wish me vent steam now?” he said. “To complete test.”

“Falconbridge!” said Stapleford. “Remove the blowpipe at once.”

Falconbridge unscrewed the blowpipe, but not once did his eyes drop from mine. He stared at me, smiling that awful smile, until the blowpipe was free and he handed it to me.

“That blowpipe wasn’t loaded, was it?” asked T. Everett.

I hadn’t thought to check!

I raised the blowpipe to my eye and squinted inside. It was empty.

“Are you going to name the murderer now?” said Lady Julia. “I’m sure the servants have work to do.”

I was tempted to name Falconbridge, but a detective can’t allow personal feelings to get in the way.

“One can’t rush a
dénouement
, Aunt Julia,” I said. “One has to set the scene. Talking of which, we now move to events in the Yew Walk on the night of Sir Robert’s murder. As some of you know, Sir Robert was lured to the Yew Walk by a note purporting to have come from Sergeant Stock, asking him to meet that stout custodian of the law at the mire gate at eight of the clock.

“Unbeknownst to Sir Robert, the murderer has instructed an automaton to wait, hidden in the copse, by the mire gate. And unbeknownst to the murderer, Sir Robert and the automaton were not alone that night. There was a witness.”

I was watching Stapleford when I delivered that last line. He certainly looked surprised, but no eye bulging or frothing.

“A witness,” I repeated. “A feral automaton, living on the moor, was on the track by the mire gate. And ... she saw everything.”

I scanned all the faces at the table. I saw surprise, excitement, anticipation — a hint of simmering exasperation from Lady Julia — but nothing resembling a guilty party having their insides gnawed by field mice. Was the murderer without fear ... without conscience?

I ratcheted up the tension. Inspector Murgatroyd would have been proud.

“And when I say everything,” I said. “I mean ...
everything
.”

I let the Worcester gaze glide over the servants this time. No frothing, no feverish brows, no eyes darting towards the nearest exit. They looked like they were enjoying it. Rapt faces, hanging on my every word. I’d probably get asked back for an encore.

“She saw the automaton,” I continued. “She saw it flee through the copse and hide amongst the rhododendrons,” I said.

“Who was it?” asked Ida. “I bet she recognised it.”

“It was ... disguised,” I said.

“What as?” asked Ida “Not another ghost?”

“No, it was disguised as a tree. A yew tree. We found a pile of yew branches by the rhododendrons which confirmed her report.”

“So how did you identify the automaton if it was disguised as a tree?” asked Ida.

“Deduction,” I said.

“How can you deduce an automaton’s identity from a pile of yew branches?” asked Stapleford.

I hadn’t started to froth, but I had the distinct impression my brow was turning feverish. And I could feel my earlier confidence oozing out from every pore.

“It’s a skill,” I said. “One either has it, or one doesn’t. Impossible to explain.”

“So who was the automaton?” asked Ida.

“More to the point,” said Lady Julia. “Who was the murderer?”

I was losing the room. The confident swagger, the eloquence, both had deserted me.

I gambled all. The murderer had to be feeling a dashed sight worse than me. Surely one more push would tip him over the pelmet?

I drew myself up to my full height, gripped both lapels, and fixed my gaze on Lupin. I’d tested everyone else.

“The murderer is...” I began. Then I paused, hoping the longer I drew it out, the more chance the murderer would crack and make a run for it. The pause became pregnant, gave birth, had grandchildren, and
still
no one moved.

The dining room clock ticked. Expectant faces turned quizzical. And Reeves coughed.

I may still have had issues with him, and I had no idea what he was going to say, but ... it was either turn to Reeves or feign a heart attack.

“Yes, Reeves?” I said.

“Given the circumstances, sir, your reticence to name the murderer, is quite understandable.” Reeves then turned to address the gathering. “The identity of the murderer is ... Roderick Baskerville-Smythe.”

My fleeting elation at Reeves’ intervention was dashed.

“Reeves!” I hissed. “I know I’m always encouraging you to consider the person least likely, but that’s stretching things a bit far, don’t you think?”

The initial shocked silence that greeted Reeves’ pronouncement was replaced by a chorus of what’s.

And I didn’t like the way Sergeant Stock was looking at me.

“It
isn’t
me, is it, Reeves?” I whispered.

“No, sir. The time has come to reveal our true identities. I am Sergeant Reeves, and this gentleman...” Reeves waved a hand in my direction. “Is Inspector Natterjack of Scotland Yard.”

“What are you talking about, man?” said Henry. Henry was not alone in his confusion. The whole room was confused, including me. What was Reeves up to?

“If I may explain, Sir Henry,” said Reeves. “Last week Scotland Yard received a troubling telegram from your father.”

“What? The governor sent a telegram to Scotland Yard?”

“Yes, sir. The telegram alleged that he — Sir Robert — had uncovered a plot to murder one of the family. He wasn’t sure if the intended victim was himself or you, Sir Henry. But he believed the threat both credible and imminent. He requested immediate assistance, suggesting that one of our officers, by pretending to be his nephew, Roderick, could gain admittance to the household, whereupon they could conduct a discreet investigation.”

“This is preposterous,” said Lady Julia. “Robert would have told me.”

“Sir Robert had good reason to believe, milady, that anyone taken into his confidence would be placed in considerable danger.”

“What good reason?” demanded Lady Julia.

“Sir Robert received an anonymous letter, milady, saying that they knew about the telegram and that if he didn’t keep his mouth shut then he, and anyone else he involved, would suffer.”

“Is this true?” Henry asked me.

“Every word,” I said. I don’t know how Reeves does it. He’d convinced me about the telegram and the note. I suppose he does exude an aura of such innate probity that one couldn’t possibly imagine him telling a lie.

“I have the note here, Sir Henry,” said Reeves, producing a piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to Henry.

I believe my mouth may have fallen open at this point. How could Reeves have had the time to provide a note? I thought he’d been making things up as he went along.

Henry read the note aloud. “You shouldn’t have sent that telegram to the Yard. Keep your mouth shut. I’m watching. Tell a soul and they get their throat slit.”