The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (8 page)

“What do you think, Roderick?” asked Sir Robert.

“I think there may be more to this than meets the eyeball,” I said. “The escaped convict is the obvious suspect, but has anyone actually seen him?”

“Pasco must have,” said Henry. “That’s why he was killed.”

“But why lop off his head and hands?” I said. “Seems rummy to me. Why would a convict try to hide Pasco’s identity?”

“Dartmoor’s a notorious prison, Roderick,” said Sir Robert. “All the worst kinds of murderers are sent there. Chopping heads and hands off his victims is probably second nature to this villain.”

Sir Robert had a point.

“That’s true,” I said. “Consulting detectives call it
modus operandi
. Every murderer has one, don’t they Reeves.”

“So it is widely held, sir. Murderers are creatures of habit. Once they find a method that suits, they are loathe to try another.”

“There you are then,” said Henry. “This convict is an assassin used to tidying up after himself. All the more reason for him to be long gone from here.”

“Do you think the ghost was prophesying Pasco’s death?” asked Lily.

“I don’t think there
was
a ghost, Emmeline,” said Sir Robert. “I’ve talked with Henry about this, and we’re certain it was a servant’s prank. One of the younger ones. I imagine they are feeling much chastened by subsequent events, and I’m sure we will not see a reoccurrence. Best to put the matter behind us.”

“Well,” said Henry, rubbing his hands. “Tempus fugit. Let’s get changed and meet back here in ... thirty minutes? It’s a sunny day, and we have an important scene to shoot. Don’t want to waste the light.”

“Are you sure we’ll be safe?” asked Lily.

“Positive,” he said. “But I’ll take a shotgun along with us just in case.”

~

Sir Robert and all the houseguests, with the exception of Emmeline and myself, left for the quarry.

“Are you sure you won’t join us, Roderick? Lily? I can find parts for both of you,” said Henry before leaving.

“Maybe later,” I said. “I’d like to do a little sleuthing first. See if I can find Pasco’s head.”

“And I’m going to do a little sketching,” lied Emmeline extremely convincingly. “The Hall looks quite magnificent with the early morning sun upon it.”

Now all we had to do was steer clear of Lady Julia and we’d have the entire crime scene to ourselves!

“Time, I think, to learn more about this Pasco,” I said. “Where was he last night, and who saw him last?”

Eight

set off across the lawn in search of Trelawny, the gardener. Emmeline and I were better attired this time — in tweeds and walking shoes. I’d favoured a bold red tartan sock myself, but Reeves was adamant that an understated pastel was more suitable sleuthing attire.

We found Trelawny in the walled garden. He was a short, wiry individual with a weather-beaten face and a worrying shortage of teeth. I rather thought he had the look of a man who’d been aged for twelve years in an oak cask. He told us he was in the middle of forcing rhubarb. To do what, he didn’t say, and I thought it best not to enquire.

“Did you see or hear anything unusual last night?” I asked, getting right down to it.

“Only the storm, Mister Roderick. ’Twas a howlin’ an’ a thunderin’ all night.”

On to the next question. “What about Pasco? When was the last time you saw him?”

“That’d be sunset. We always stop work at sunset. I goes to me cottage, and Pasco ’e goes to the ol’ stable block for ’is steam. ’E’s a machine, you know? Sir Robert put a boiler in the ol’ stable block last year when ’e bought Pasco ’an Silas.”

“Silas?” I asked.

“’E’s another one of they machines. A right fancy one ’an all. ’E’s over the back now, mowing the lawn ... with his feet.”

Trelawny laughed to himself, a cackling wheezy kind of laugh.

“He’s one of the newer gardening models,” said Emmeline. “I thought I was seeing things when I first saw him. I asked Henry about him. He has all these attachments. Silas, that is, not Henry. He has these pronged cutters on his feet for mowing the lawn, and the same on his hands for trimming hedges.”

“Oo arr,” said Trelawny. “’E’s got boots for ploughin’ too, an’ for sowin’, an’ ’ands that can saw logs. Got ’tachments for everythin’.”

“So,” I said. “Where would Pasco have gone after he’d brought himself back up to pressure?”

“Nowhere,” said Trelawny. “That’s where ’e spends the night. ’Im an’ Silas together.”

I looked at Reeves. Had Pasco been in the old stable block when Reeves had been there this morning? Reeves raised an eyebrow. Whether one eyebrow signified ‘yes’ or a surge of activity in his steam-powered grey cells, I had no idea.

“Does anyone else sleep in the old stable block?” I asked Trelawny.

“No. Tom an’ Jethro sleep over the new stables. Dan an’ Jimmy sleep up at the quarry these days.”

“Right ho,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Trelawny. We’ll beetle off and have a word with Silas.”

“You can try, Master Roderick, but you won’t get no sense out of ’im. You can tell ’im what to do, but that’s it. ’E’s not one of they clever machines like Pasco. ’E just does what ’e’s told.”

“I believe I am familiar with the model, sir,” said Reeves. “It’s more of an intelligent tool than an automaton.”

“Not much of a conversationalist then?” I said.

“No, sir.”

~

“Well, Reeves?” I asked as soon as we’d moved out of earshot. “Were Pasco and Silas in the old stable block when you were there this morning?”

“Silas was, sir, but Pasco was not.”

“So, Pasco was probably killed sometime between sunset and four.”

“That would be my assumption, sir.”

“What about this Silas, Reeves? Did he look worried? Wave a saw at you and point tremulously at the woodshed?”

“No, sir. The model in question does not communicate. It does not even have a head. It is designed to work, not to resemble a human.”

“What about its attachments?” asked Emmeline. “Did it have any unusual ones? Like revolving axes? I’ve heard Henry and Sir Robert say that Stapleford’s a marvel with machines. He’s always coming up with new ways to modify automata for their moving pictures.”

“I did not notice anything unusual, miss.”

I wanted to have a look at this Silas myself. We followed the rattling sound to the back lawn where we found him mowing. It was fascinating, and not a little disturbing, to see him shuffling across the sward sending a shower of cut grass streaming in his wake. I’d never seen such sharp toenails.

“How does he do it, Reeves? Surely no blade could be that sharp.”

“I believe it is what is called a finger bar mower, sir. A steam-powered sickle bar is driven back and forth across a stationary finger bar, and the grass is cut between the blades.”

I watched mesmerised. Silas was the size of a child — a rather squat, headless child with large feet and hands. And a large single eye on a flexible stalk.

“Could he wield an axe, do you think?” I asked.

“Not with sufficient force to sever Pasco’s head, sir. This model is essentially a slow one, built for strength and dexterity. With a grasping mechanism attached it can lift heavy weights and open gates, but the arm lacks the speed to swing an axe with deadly force. Besides, the hedge-trimming attachment is more than capable of amputating a head. The wound on Pasco, however, would have been very different.”

I decided to visit the old stable block next. Had the killer stumbled into the old stable block looking for shelter, found Pasco and killed him? Or had Pasco heard a noise and ventured out? If there’d been a struggle on the soft ground there could be traces.

We quartered the area between the old stable block and the woodshed. There was plenty of evidence of the two dozen feet that had visited the woodshed after breakfast, but no obvious signs of a struggle. And there was a flagstone path between the stables and the shed.

The old stable block didn’t provide any clues either. There were no signs of a struggle inside. I checked the hayloft and every stall, looking for the unexpected — a crumpled note, a discarded banana, mysterious carved runes, a convict’s striped clothes...

Nothing.

“If the killer was this convict,” I said. “It might explain why Pasco was debagged. A man in a striped uniform is going to attract attention. He’d get a lot farther with new clothes.”

“So there should be a pile of prison clothes somewhere,” said Emmeline.

“Exactly,” I said. “I haven’t seen any. Have you?”

“No,” said Emmeline. “He couldn’t have burnt them — not with the rain last night. He might have buried them though.”

Reeves coughed. “There is a furnace that heats the copper boiler, miss.”

I looked at Reeves in awe. I may have the occasional issue with his eyebrows, but the man’s brain was immense.

We returned at speed to the old stable block and stood back while Reeves opened the furnace door.

“Any sign of a stripe?” I asked.

Reeves raked the embers with a rather lethal looking poker.

“No, sir. It
is
possible that the cloth has been completely incinerated. If Pasco was killed in the early hours of the night, there may have been time.”

Such is the detective’s lot. There are highs. There are lows. There are even times when one finds oneself wrestling orang-utans on dining room carpets. All one can do is dust off one’s brogues and press on.

I decided another look at the woodshed was called for.

“Do you know if they’ve moved the body?” I asked Reeves.

“I overheard Berrymore say that Sir Robert had not given him any instructions on the matter, sir. And that Pasco was to remain where he was until Sir Robert returned.”

“Ah, well, brace yourselves then. You don’t have to come in, Emmie.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I saw it all earlier.”

Well, I certainly braced myself. A naked under gardener was disconcerting at the best of times, and this would be my second viewing on an empty stomach.

I opened the door, and peered in.

Pasco had gone.

Nine

looked at the log pile we’d moved earlier.

“He’s not been buried again, has he?” I said.

The three of us began moving the log pile, one log at a time, back to its original position. As soon as we reached the bottom layer we knew the answer. Pasco was not there.

“He
was
dead, wasn’t he?” I asked.

“He was certainly not operational, sir, neither could he have been repaired this quickly. He’d require new turbines, or a new torso. He’d also require his head reattached, and at least thirty minutes on the steam outlet.”

“Why would someone move him?” asked Emmeline. “We’ve already seen him.”

I may not have had my kipper breakfast, but my little grey cells were in mid-season form. “I see all,” I said.

“You do?” said Emmeline.

“Indubitably. That is the right word, isn’t it, Reeves?”

“I suspect so, sir.”

“Good. The killer has taken some risk in moving the body in broad daylight, therefore one can deduce that it is of vital importance.”

“Go on,” said Emmeline. “I adore it when you deduce.”

“So, although we
though
t we had seen all there was to see this morning, we were mistaken. There must be something about the body that we missed. And the killer has risked all to make sure that his, her — or, indeed, its — mistake was rectified.”

~

We sleuthed for another hour, checking all the outbuildings for any sign of Pasco.

“He couldn’t be in the Hall, could he?” I asked. “Is it possible to stroll through the servants’ entrance carrying a naked under gardener without attracting comment?”

“I would very much doubt it, sir.”

And I suspected it would be even harder to smuggle one through the main entrance. Claude ‘Cicely’ Sissinghurst had tried it once at the Sloths Club, and got nabbed in the back passage.

“Trelawny could have buried him in the garden,” said Emmeline. “That’s the only place I’ve seen where the soil looked disturbed.”

“I don’t think Trelawny’s the kind of chap who’d appreciate us digging up his prize carrots. A man who takes a firm hand with rhubarb is likely to cut up rough.”