The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (32 page)

Ida and Lily both gasped. Lady Julia looked shaken. And I looked at Reeves in awe. Perhaps I really was Inspector Natterjack?

“Did you say that Roderick sent this?” said Henry. “That he ... that he killed my father?”

“Indeed, sir. Inspector Natterjack made the connection.”

“How?” said Henry.

Suddenly, everyone was looking at me, including Reeves.

“A simple deduction,” I said. “One doesn’t like to blow one’s own trumpet. I’ll let Reeves explain.”

“Thank you, sir. It came to our notice during this investigation that several members of this parish bear a striking resemblance to the Baskerville family portraits. The possibility of one of them having a distant claim to the Baskerville title was considered, and dismissed. That is, until Inspector Natterjack discovered that one of them had the imprint of the Buenos Aires and District Railway Line upon his back. That person could be none other than Roderick Baskerville-Smythe, whose claim to the Baskerville title was far from distant.”

“Show yourself!” shouted Henry, his eyes darting around the room as he shot to his feet.

Several eyes had already alighted upon Witheridge.

He may not have frothed at the mouth, but Witheridge panicked. He turned, struggled to unlatch the window, pulled the lower pane up, and had started to dive through when Sergeant Stock and Henry grabbed a leg each and hauled him back in.

It took a while to subdue the struggling Witheridge and manhandle him into a chair. Whereupon, Henry started questioning him.

“Roderick, why didn’t you
say
something? We’d have given you an income. You didn’t have to murder anyone!”

“You wouldn’t let a
réanimé
in the house, let alone given me an income! And besides, I don’t want the leavings of a family that abandoned my mother. I want justice. I want you to suffer. Your branch of the family always looked down on mine. You cheated my father out of his inheritance!”

“Your father was the youngest brother, Roderick. He
had
no inheritance,” said Lady Julia.

“He
should
have!
I
should have. I was left with
nothing
! While you had this house, the estate, Quarrywood, everything you wanted!”

“The boy is clearly deranged,” said Lady Julia.

“I can still inherit the title. No one’ll be able to touch me!”

He broke free and leapt at Henry. The pair fell back against the dining table, wrestling as they went. Sergeant Stock attempted to intervene, but was waylaid by the unexpected arrival upon his shoulders of a flying Lupin, who had two hands on the officer’s helmet and two feet fending off the officer’s flailing arms.

There was considerable confusion, not to mention much shouting and screaming. And bodies everywhere as half the room tried to assist Henry and half the room tried to get out of the way. The latter succeeding in getting in the way of most of the former.

I tried to reach Henry, but found myself trapped behind the flailing Sergeant Stock. Whereupon Lupin decided that, as tempting as a policeman’s helmet was, round three with Reginald was the ape’s pyjamas.

Within seconds we were on the floor and rolling under the table. And rolling back out again. Above us, people pushed and shouted, tripped and jumped out of the way. I only saw snatches of what happened next, my vision being somewhat impaired by all the rolling and grappling, but it would appear that, somehow, Roderick managed to break free in all the confusion, and made a run for the open window. But as he attempted a full length dive, he found the window considerably less open than it had been a second earlier — Emmeline having begun to slam it shut.

The unfortunate Roderick was caught amidships, and winded somewhat as he hung there — beached — half in, half out the window.

Stout arms — none of which belonged to Emmeline I hasten to add — fastened around the struggling Roderick’s legs and hauled him in.

“Allow me, miss,” said Sergeant Stock, leaning over to fetch Roderick a juicy one with his truncheon.

The next thing I saw was Lady Julia standing over me with a vase which proved to contain considerably more water than one would think possible. Lupin squawked and bounced off, leaving a soaked Reginald to drip on the Axminster.

“You may be an inspector,” said Lady Julia. “But you are still an idiot.”

I watched Roderick being led away then dashed upstairs to change out of my wet clothes.

As denouements went I thought it a pretty good one. A bit of a wobble in the middle act, but it finished strongly and had the audience on their feet.

Twenty-Nine

dry and refortified by a glass of the restorative I went looking for Reeves. It took me a while, but I eventually tracked him down on the front lawn.

“Why didn’t you tell me beforehand?” I asked.

“I tried, sir.”

“You could have said something when you oiled in with the early morning oolong. I was all ears then.”

“I did not know at that juncture, sir. I didn’t discover Witheridge’s true identity until later that morning when the idea that the ‘Cyrillic’ writing on his ‘tattoo’ might be a mirror image presented itself to me. I made a sketch of the tattoo from memory and located a suitable mirror to observe the result. That’s when the words ‘Buenos Aires and District Railway Company’ sprang out at me.”

“Bit of a shock I should imagine.”

“Indeed, sir. The fact that Roderick Baskerville-Smythe had travelled halfway around the world to be with his family but, instead of revealing himself, had assumed a false identity, led me to believe that his motives were decidedly suspect. According to the other servants, Witheridge exhibited no fondness for the family. Babbacombe went so far as to suggest that he held the family in contempt.”

I tut-tutted. Where was the feudal spirit these days?

“I had considered the possibility, sir, that, as a
réanimé,
changing his name and taking employment as a servant might have been the only way he could get close to his family. But his lack of fondness removed the possibility that his subterfuge was in any way related to a desire to be close to the bosom of his forebears.”

I wasn’t quite sure what Reeves had said, but I knew it had to be the business.

“One can also imagine, sir, the considerable shock that your arrival on the premises would have engendered. I do not believe it a coincidence that the ghost appeared the very day you arrived. I believe Mister Roderick felt his hand forced.”

“You don’t mean... Do you think I brought about Sir Robert’s murder?”

“No, sir. You may have brought it forward by a day or two, but the plan was too well formed to be an impromptu one. I am also certain that, without your presence here, Sir Henry would have swiftly joined his father in the Baskerville-Smythe vaults.”

Well that was a relief. I didn’t like the idea of Reginald Worcester, harbinger of death.

“It also explains why incriminating evidence was planted in our rooms, sir. He wouldn’t have known your motive for impersonating Mister Roderick, but he would have suspected you were after the title too. That would have made you a dangerous rival who had to be removed — either by murder or by framing you for murder.”

“But would he be allowed to inherit the title?” I asked. “I’m sure someone told me that prometheans had no legal standing. Once dead, always dead — in the eyes of the law.”

“That is true, sir, but he does not appear to grasp the finer points of primogeniture. One also assumes that having lived at the Hall for five months without anyone guessing he was a
réanimé,
that he would attempt to continue that deception once he claimed the title.”

“True,” I said. “As long as he steered clear of Turkish baths and Swedish massage.”

“Indeed, sir. Of course, as soon as I discovered that Witheridge was the real Roderick Baskerville-Smythe, I realised that would necessitate a modification to your identity. Pursuant to which, sir, I endeavoured to create a plausible alternative.”

“Complete with a threatening note from the murderer.”

“Indeed, sir. I thought it would add verisimilitude.”

“Reeves, you are a marvel. I’m surprised you weren’t named Nonesuch, because you are truly without equal.”

“Thank you, sir. One endeavours to give satisfaction.”

~

I was waiting for Emmeline on the back lawn when I saw Reeves approaching at a good lick.

“What is it, Reeves? You look in a hurry.”

“I made an unfortunate discovery in the kitchen, sir.”

“Not another Cyrillic tattoo, I hope?”

“No, sir. I have just discovered what is on the menu for luncheon.”

“Something avant garde, is it?” Reeves is easily offended by the experimental.

“One could say that, sir. It is Head of Pasco.”

“What?”

“The assistant cook found the pastry head in the pantry, sir. I suspect Lupin put it there. The cook, not knowing its true provenance, believed the object to be a pie that Mrs Berrymore had prepared earlier. It is now in the oven, baking, and will be served on a bed of
gratin de pommes à la dauphinoise
within the hour.”

“Shouldn’t we warn someone?”

“I fear that might invite a number of unwelcome questions, sir.”

“We can’t
not
say anything. We’re dining at their trough for another ten days, Reeves. The least we can do is mark their card when they accidentally bake an under gardener.”

Reeves coughed. “You are no longer Mister Roderick, sir. You are a policeman who would be expected to find a room at the Grimdark Arms. And I’m certain the coroner will have a good deal of questions for Inspector Natterjack.”

“Time to pack, you think?”

“I have already instructed Tom to take your bags to the carriage, sir. With luck we shall be in time for the one fifty-five to London.”

“What about Emmeline?” I said. “I can’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“Miss Emmeline is coming with us, sir. When I saw her last she was on her way to the drawing room to inform Lady Julia.”

“She wasn’t armed, was she?”

“No, sir.”

Well, that was a relief.

Reeves and I ankled around to the front of the house to await Emmeline and Tom by the carriage.

“I was thinking, Reeves,” I said. “If
réanimés
have no legal standing, how will they try Roderick? Can they hang a chap who’s already dead?”

“Posthumous execution is not without precedent, sir. Oliver Cromwell was beheaded two years after he died.”

“So there’s no plea of ‘not guilty by reason of previous demise?’”

“No, sir.”

I glanced towards the house. Still no sign of Emmeline.

“Did Roderick say who the automaton with the blowpipe was, Reeves?”

“No, sir. I believe Silas would be the most likely candidate. He was the only other automaton at the Hall and, being mute, made the ideal instrument. One assumes that had he been taller, and equipped with a head, he would have been first choice for the role of the ghost as well.”

I saw Emmeline running across the lawn, one hand firmly keeping her hat in place. I jumped down from the carriage and waited for her.

“Is Lady Julia alive?” I asked. “Just checking in case we have to take the boat train to Plymouth.”

“She lives,” said Emmeline, taking my hand and climbing aboard. “Though she’s not amused. I told her that I found Devonshire a little too much like Whitechapel. And had decided to leave while I still had a head on my shoulders.”

“Golly,” I said. “How’d she take it?”

“A little better than when I delivered my parting shot. ‘One murderer in the family may be regarded as a misfortune, Lady Julia, to have a murderer
and
a
réanimé
looks like carelessness.’”

One can’t beat Oscar Wilde for a juicy parting shot.

“You didn’t hunt down Ida as well, by any chance?” I asked.

“I thought about it. But one can’t bury a body when one has a train to catch.”

Say what you like about finishing schools, but they always teach their girls the essentials.

“Anyway,” said Emmeline. “I have decided to found a charity — The Aid Association for Distressed Mechanical Folk. Lottie shall be its first beneficiary. You’ll stump up ten guineas for her new feet, won’t you?”

“Of course,” I said. “Will ten guineas be enough?”

“That’s the amount Stapleford quoted. Apparently, you can get them by mail order from Gears and Roebuck. Would you like new feet, Reeves?”

“I think not, miss.”

“I’ll have to get a new body for Annie too,” said Emmeline. “We can come back next week in disguise and break her out of Quarrywood. We’ll need an extra beard for Annie so we can smuggle her onto the London train. And four pairs of trousers, extra long.”

Reeves coughed. “I don’t think that will be necessary, miss. I had a long conversation with Annie after you left the quarry yesterday afternoon. Surprisingly, she is much taken with her new position. She told me that her horizons, not to mention her arms, have been considerably broadened by her recent employment at Quarrywood.”

“Really?” I said.