The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (5 page)

I slurped a contemplative spoonful of mulligatawny. I may not have had five diamond mines, but neither was I short of a few bob. As oofiness went, I was high to middling. Should I invest a few thou? I could see my fellow sloths being first in the queue for a fly-in over Piccadilly.

“And that’s not the best bit,” said T. “The beauty of the fly-in is that we can hold them anywhere. And if we hold them outside the three-mile limit, it’s all tax free! No tax. No duty. Everything we make is pure profit!”

I’m sure there was a downside, but dashed if I could see it. I’d have a word with Reeves at the first opportunity.

T. Everett was a veritable fountain of ideas. Over the next two courses he regaled me with all manner of money-making schemes.

“It’s all in the concessions,” he said. “And the better-heeled the customer, the bigger the profit. Have you ever been to the opera, Roderick?”

“Does Gilbert and Sullivan count?”

“If they have opera glasses they do. How can you see how fat the fat lady really is if you don’t have opera glasses? It’ll be the same at a fly-in, except ... how can you fly a zeppelin without flying goggles?”

All good questions.

“So we combine the two,” said T. Everett. “And sell everyone our very own fly-in movie goggles. No one’ll dare miss out.”

“Tell him about the cloud ice cube dispenser,” said Henry.

“Think of all those clouds up there, Roderick,” said T. “Full of the purest water imaginable. And all those thirsty patrons just crying out for ice in their drinks. I know a guy in New Jersey who has a patent for seeding clouds to make it rain. If he can make rain, he sure as shootin’ oughta be able to make ice too, don’t you think?”

Once again his logic was faultless.

“We’ll call it Cloud Ice,” continued T. “And we’ll add some kinda scoop to our concessions zeppelin to collect it all. It’ll be swell.”

“Of course,” said Henry, “None of this can get off the ground without a steady stream of hit movies to show. Which is where Quarrywood comes in. Have you seen any of our movies, Roderick?
The Quarry That Time Forgot, The Quarry of the Apes
. We’re shooting
The Creature from 20,000 Leagues Under the Quarry
at the moment.”

I sensed a theme.

“Isn’t it
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
?” I said.

“That’s the book,” said Henry. “But the sea’s twenty miles away and the quarry’s right here.”

“The movie is a very different creature to a book, Roderick,” said T. “It takes days to read a book. A movie’s over in twenty minutes.”

“Exactly,” said Henry. “One can’t afford to dawdle. Being a moving picture director is a bit like producing a village show when one only has the hall booked for twenty minutes, and the audience is packed with the local toughs, each one armed to the gills with rotten tomatoes. One can’t send out old Mr Trumpington to stutter and repeat himself through all thirty-seven verses of
Observations of Flowers in the Vicinity of Matterstock Parva
. They’d kill him.”

I may never have met old Mr Trumpington, but I’d sat through many a recitation by a close relative.

“No,” said Henry. “One simply has to cut out all the Trumpingtons, and floral observations, when adapting a book for a one-reeler. People want action these days — lots of chases, monsters and murders. And if the book doesn’t have enough monsters then I say ‘add them.’ Don’t you think
The Importance of Being Earnest
would be improved by having a few more murders?”

“I didn’t know there were
any
murders in
The Importance of Being Earnest
.”

“I think you’ll find there’s
one
. Doesn’t Lady Bracknell brain someone with a handbag?”

“Not in the productions I’ve seen.”

Though I had to admit a certain desire to see one.

~

I caught a glimpse of Emmeline as Lady Julia led her and the other ladies into the drawing room after dinner. She smiled wanly in my direction before a tug from Lady Julia dragged her away.

Stapleford left soon afterwards too, citing the imminent storm and a prisoner on the loose as good reasons to head home. Apparently he lived a mile away at High Dudgeon Farm and the track home skirted the dreaded Grimdark Mire.

The remainder of the party gathered around our end of the dining table. Sir Robert bringing a rather fine decanter of port with him and Dr Morrow breaking out the cigars.

“How long are you planning to stay in England, Roderick?” asked Dr Morrow.

“Not long at all,” I said. “Two weeks and I’ll be pining for the Pampas.”

“You’re not intending to buy a house here then?”

“No, this is but a fleeting visit.”

“Seems an awfully long way to come for a fleeting visit,” said the doctor. “Why not stay for the summer?”

“Capital idea!” said Henry. “You could star in your own movie.
Journey to The Centre of The Diamond Quarry
. I’m sure the station master at Grimdark would let us borrow a train for the concussion scene.”

I didn’t like the sound of ‘concussion scene.’

“You’d be in no danger,” said Dr Morrow. “We’d use a double for the actual impact.”

“You haven’t seen the good doctor’s doubles, have you?” said Henry. “They are
remarkably
realistic.”

“It’s what makes Quarrywood movies stand out from the rest,” said Sir Robert. “Other moving pictures look contrived and pedestrian compared to ours.”

“It’s true,” said T. Everett. “The first time I saw a Quarrywood movie —
The Quarry of the Apes
, I think it was — I couldn’t believe my eyes. Apes were having sword fights — on horseback! — and guys were having their arms lopped off! I’ve never seen a theatre audience so enthralled. We sold more vials of smelling salts that evening than we did orange juice.”

“Of course they weren’t real apes,” said Dr Morrow. “Or real people having their arms lopped off. They were automata and prometheans. Have you heard of prometheans, Roderick? Corpses sewn back together and reanimated?”

“I’m on first name terms with several,” I said. “I’ve even exchanged words with Guy Fawkes.”

“Wasn’t he reanimated in London?” said Dr Morrow. “And then incarcerated by the police. I thought this was your first visit to England, Roderick?”

There was slight rise in the Worcester heart-rate, but a fleeting one. My little grey cells were fully lubricated by this time of the evening, steeped in fine Burgundy and the first flush of the Old Ruby.

“Ah, you’re thinking of the gunpowder plot Guy Fawkes,” I said. “I’m talking about the Argentinean one. He has two Fs in his name. Two Gs as well, I think. Rum fellow. He was a pirate, you know? Grief-stricken when they couldn’t reanimate his parrot.”

I think I got away with it. Dr Morrow gave me a strange look but, as a person who’d been collecting strange looks for most of his life, I found it little stranger than most.

“They’re a lot cheaper than actors,” said Sir Robert, returning the conversation back to his beloved Quarrywood. “Prometheans. And less trouble. Tell an actor his part calls for an arm lopping and he’ll hand in his notice. Not so with these
réanimé
chappies.”

“Of course, I
do
sew their arms back on,” said Dr Morrow. “After all, they’ve all been sewn together so many times, what’s one more?”

“Quite,” I said. “I don’t suppose you
need
any real actors in your moving pictures, do you? You could use prometheans for every role.”

“Not really,” said Henry. “They do have their limitations. If one wants someone to be stabbed, or have a tree fall on them, they have no equal. But they can’t act. One needs an expressive face for close-ups. Prometheans don’t have the range.”

“Or the intellect,” said Dr Morrow, looking at me a little more closely than I was comfortable with. “I can’t see any scarring on your head, Roderick, from when that train struck you.”

“It
was
a glancing blow,” I said. “The train hit the stagecoach I was travelling in, and I was thrown out. It was more a case of a dull thump as my head hit the ground than a whack from a charging train.”

“I think we’ll lose the stagecoach for the movie,” said Henry. “It’ll look better if the train gives you a good whack and sends you flying high through the air. And we’ll have to give you a good reason for being on the tracks in the first place.”

.

“He could be tied to the tracks,” said T. Everett.

“Capital!” said Henry. “The Lizard Man ties Roderick to the railway tracks then, just as Roderick frees himself — whack! — along comes the train.”

I had to ask. “Did you say Lizard Man?”

“Quarrywood is famous for its Lizard Men,” said T. Everett.

“We try to use them in all our films,” said Henry. “They make excellent villains. They look like men, but they have these big dinosaur heads and tails.”

“People don’t realise how hard it is to portray villainy,” said Sir Robert. “Or how long it takes. When one only has twenty minutes, one can’t afford to keep pausing the action for a close up of the actor so he can twirl his moustaches in a menacing fashion.”

“In the States we use the hat,” said T. Everett. “If an actor’s wearing a white hat, he’s a good guy. If he’s wearing a black hat, he’s bad.”

“What about tan hats?” I asked.

“They’re for bystanders,” said T. Everett. “They’re only there to make up the numbers.”

“We tried hats in
The Quarry of the Apes
,” said Sir Robert. “Didn’t look right.”

“Especially on the Lizard Men,” said Henry. “Dashed difficult to feel threatened by a Lizard Man wearing a sombrero.”

“Even a black one,” said Sir Robert. “We had to re-shoot every scene.”

“But now we have the balance right,” said Henry. “One only needs a glimpse of a Lizard Man to know he’s up to no good. No need for hats or close-ups of twirling moustaches. It lets the action run much smoother.”

~

The ladies returned just before midnight. I didn’t see Emmeline at first. Naturally my first thought was that she’d tied herself to a stout table — probably using a curtain she’d pulled from its rings — but, no, she was merely hanging back to increase the space between her and Lady Julia.

Fortunately, Lady Julia favoured early nights, and only stayed long enough to glare at me twice before exiting stage left.

I counted to five before ambling over to Emmeline, adding a nonchalant whistle to convey an aura of detached innocence in case anyone was watching.

“She’s like a terrier,” said Emmeline, keeping her voice low. “She didn’t stop all evening. Questioning me about my family, friends, you.”

“Me?”

“She’s not sure if I’m an impressionable, silly girl or your partner in crime! And I can’t be beastly back to her because everyone thinks I’m Lily. I can’t get Lily into trouble, so I have to sit back and take it.”

“She’ll relent,” I said, trying to sound a good deal more confident than I felt.

“I hope so. I can’t sit through another evening like tonight. I’ll explode!”

“I’ll have a word with Reeves. He’ll come up with a plan, I’m sure.”

We couldn’t talk privately after that. Henry came over, swiftly followed by Ida, and from then on the conversation switched to all things Quarrywood.

Until a woman’s scream stopped all conversation dead.

Five

all ran to the source of the scream, and found Lily standing in the hallway, staring up at the landing, one hand clasped to her mouth.

I followed her gaze and started. Was it a ghost? It looked like a ghost. Its face was a glowing skull — a ghostly, shimmering, greenish glow — shining out from beneath a hood. She, or it, wore a long black dress and was oiling along the ill-lit landing.

“It’s Theodosia!” said Henry. “She’s the image of her portrait.”

Henry looked at his father, whose face had turned ashen. “It can’t be,” said Sir Robert.

Henry set off up the stairs at a fair lick. I followed. The ghost had turned into the very corridor that Emmeline and I had had our earlier conversation.

But when Henry and I reached the corridor, it was empty. Every door in the corridor was closed, save one: the nearest on the right, which was wide open.

The Worcester heart was beating at a considerable rate. The room in front of us was dark, the only light coming from a single gas lamp on the landing behind us. If the ghost was inside the room, it was hiding its glowing face.

A footman arrived with a lamp. Henry took it and slowly entered the room, holding the lamp high in front of him. We all shuffled after him.

Then there was a collective gasp. There was a message on the mirror over the chimney breast.

Written in rouge, it said in large letters, ‘He dies tomorrow!’

~

We searched the entire bedroom. There was no sign of the ghost, and nowhere anyone pretending to be a ghost could have gone. Both windows were locked, and Sir Robert was adamant there were no secret passages.

“Our family have lived here for generations. If there was a secret passage, I’d know about it.”