Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) (4 page)

“One would suppose it unlikely that Farquharson had previously partaken of another finger, sir.”

“I’m not so sure. He has the look of a dog with unusual appetites. This could be all that’s left of a postman he encountered earlier.”

Farquharson kept his own counsel, sitting very still and looking pensive. He could have been on the verge of coughing up a kneecap, or he could have been debating a second go at the finger.

Reeves bent down and retrieved the digit. “It
is
orange, sir. I believe it would be a safe assumption that this is the same finger you discovered earlier.”

We gave it another go. I held Farquharson by the lead and collar while Reeves carefully wafted the orange digit in front of the dog’s nose.

This time it must have taken, for Farquharson started sniffing excitedly and turned his attention towards the floor. I let go of his collar and let him sniff and snuffle his way around the attic ... and out the door.

Farquharson descended the stairs considerably swifter than he’d climbed them. As, unfortunately, did I. Reeves caught up with us while Farquharson was distracted by an ambrosial lamppost.

“Your turn,” I said, puffing hard as I handed over the lead.

Dog and valet proceeded to shoot off in the general direction of the Houses of Parliament, Farquharson pulling and wheezing while Reeves did his best to slow the animal down. I followed, growing more and more impressed with the nasal powers of our four-legged sleuth, until he dragged Reeves into a butcher’s shop just off Parliament Square.

“Get that dog out of here!” shouted the butcher, a large, red-faced man wielding a meat cleaver.

I have always found it a wise policy to heed the words of large, red-faced men wielding meat cleavers. A philosophy not shared by Farquharson. It took two of us to drag him out of the shop the first time. Three were required for the encore. After that the door was closed and a boy positioned there to stand guard — with orders to call for the police if Farquharson felt like going for the hat-trick.

With difficulty we manoeuvred the struggling Farquharson towards a lamppost and tied him there. Still he continued to strain and pull in the direction of the butcher shop. I didn’t know what to make of it. Was it the scent of Guy or several pounds of sausages that affected him so?

I looked closer at the produce in the butcher’s window ... and wondered. Could the butcher be selling Promethean pie?

~

I could spend several pages relating the unfortunate events that occurred during our attempt to return Farquharson to the bosom of his master, but I have been advised by my solicitor, and the doctor treating the unfortunate clergyman, that some events are best not written down.

Suffice to say dog and master were reunited, and Reeves and I drove back to the flat for a restorative cocktail.

“What do you think, Reeves?” I said as I sipped my second restorative. “Would a butcher fill his pies with Prometheans if his business was about to go belly pork up?”

“Ordinarily one would suspect not, sir, but I believe there are persons who pay considerable sums for the ground flesh of Egyptian mummies. Perhaps they would pay a similar sum for such an ancient Promethean as Mr Fawkes.”

“How extraordinary.” I knew that some people liked their meat well hung — but drawn and quartered as well?

“It’s believed to be medicinal, sir,” said Reeves. “Some sources ascribe rejuvenating properties to it.”

I took another sip of my own rejuvenator. “Would they turn orange, do you think? All that ReVitaCorpse has got to go somewhere. And if these chaps are munching away on prime Promethean one would expect at least a tongue to turn orange.”

“It is my understanding, sir, that only very small quantities of the ground flesh are ever consumed.”

“Oh well.”

Bang went my idea to stake out the butcher’s shop and look for a steady stream of orange-faced customers. But that’s a consulting detective’s lot. We’re trained to think the unthinkable, and the problem with the unthinkable is that they’re often long shots that fall at the first water jump.

I nibbled on a moody olive.

A tinkling of the hall bell heralded the arrival of a pneumatic telegram. Reeves brought it to me. As expected it was from Mr Scrottleton-Ffoukes. It read:

“Well,” I said. “What do you make of that, Reeves? Rules out kidnapping, don’t you think?”

“Possibly, sir. Or it may have it began as a kidnapping and then Mr Fawkes escaped his abductors. He was reported to be confused and violent when last sighted.”

I pondered upon this. If he had escaped, where would he go? London would look a dashed sight different today than it did 300 years ago. And all his friends would be six foot under ... or impaled on spikes. He’d have nowhere to go.

“Wouldn’t someone spot him? I mean, he’s bright orange, dressed in tattered clothing and probably violent. Not the sort of chap who would blend in easily.”

“One would suspect, sir, that he has found somewhere to hide. An empty building or a cellar perhaps.”

Yes, I could see that. “One supposes that he’d have to come out to find food. He’d have no money, so what would he do? Beg? He’s certainly dressed for it.”

“I believe one should study the psychology of the individual, sir. Contemporary accounts describe Mr Fawkes as a man of action. I posit a man of action in his situation would be more likely to steal food than to beg for it.”

“So we should be looking for reports of food thefts in the vicinity of Westminster?”

“That would be my suggestion, sir.”

I dashed off a telegram to Mr S-F informing him of our progress and advising him to stay where he was. One does hear stories about mail going astray and just because a ransom note hadn’t arrived by the morning post, it didn’t mean that one wasn’t imminent.

After a light lunch, Reeves and I took the Stanley for a spin around Westminster and Victoria looking for empty buildings and reports of food thefts. There were plenty of the former but none of the latter. Then we had another look at Farquharson’s favourite butcher’s shop.

“Do you think I should toddle inside and ask if they have any ground Jacobeans, Reeves?”

“I would not recommend it, sir. Mr Holmes generally recommends stealth.”

“Very true. And disguise. Maybe I should buy a false beard and a large hat.”

“If you must, sir,” said Reeves, exhibiting his disapproving face. “But it
is
nearly closing time and my pressure is getting low.”

“Tomorrow then. What do you think about an eye patch?”

~

Back in the flat that evening I was sipping a postprandial port and feeling in a reflective mood when Reeves came into the study with extra logs for the fire.

“I’m not sure if I’m in favour of it, Reeves.”

“What are you not in favour of, sir?”

“Prometheans. Reviving much-loved pets I can understand. But one has the feeling that the sort of people who’d insist on having their clogs unpopped would be exactly the sort of people whose clogs should be buried with a ‘Do Not Unpop’ warning. Aunt Bertha for one. Could you imagine Aunt Bertha being reanimated in perpetuity? I shudder at the very thought!”

“The process does appear to be open to abuse, sir.”

“Three score and ten — that’s what the bible says, doesn’t it, Reeves? Nothing about three score and ten per innings.”

“I believe Methuselah was reported to have lived for 969 years, sir.”

“A Promethean, do you think?”

“The Bible makes no mention of it, sir.”

“I expect King James glossed over it.”

  next day had barely arrived when Reeves appeared in my bedroom.

“Miss Emmeline is at the door, sir.”

“What?” I said, poking an inquisitive nostril above the sheets.

“Miss Emmeline, sir. She’s at the door and requesting your immediate presence.”

I sat bolt upright. “Has she escaped?”

“She didn’t say, sir. But she
is
most insistent.”

I dressed swiftly — not even stopping to choose a flower for my buttonhole — and ran downstairs to the door to the street.

“What is it, Emmy? Are you on the run?”

“Ha!” she said. “I’ll tell you about that later. No, it’s you I’m worried about. Have you seen your door?”

I hadn’t until then. A note was pinned there by what looked like a poker. The handwriting was crude and the paper was blackened where the poker had pierced it.

“Is it to do with your case? It sounds a corker if they’re already threatening you.”

Reeves appeared at my shoulder.

“Have you seen this, Reeves?” I asked.

“No, sir. Most disturbing.”

“Who’s M?” asked Emmy.

I had no idea. “Do we know any M’s, Reeves?”

“Not that I recall, sir.”

“Well that’s dashed odd. And why’s he using ‘doth?’ He’s not another ancient Promethean, is he?”

“Your case involves ancient Prometheans?” asked Emmeline.

I brought Emmeline up to speed viz. the case, omitting the full details of the scene between Farquharson and the reverend gentleman on the grounds of good taste and possible legal action.

“Do you think Guy Fawkes will try to blow up the Houses of Parliament again?” asked Emmeline.

I hadn’t until then.

“The Queen will be there tomorrow to open Parliament,” she continued. “Just like in 1605. I bet this ‘M’ is one of his co-conspirators.”

“Mr Snuggles is of the opinion that no other Prometheans of a similar age exist, miss.”

“Ha!” said Emmeline. “That’s what
he
says. I bet his first name begins with an M.”

I made a mental note to find out.

But why sign the note at all? Threatening letters were traditionally unsigned. Unless...

“What does that note tell you, Reeves?” I asked, thinking the moment opportune to give a masterclass in the art of deduction.

“That someone does not wish us to continue our investigations, sir.”

“Exactly! But what else, Reeves?”

“One would surmise that the person in question has strong feelings upon the matter, sir.”

“You see, Emmy, this is where the brain of a consulting detective comes into its own. Reeves sees the note, I see the mind of the person who penned it.”

“You do?”

“We consulting detectives have an eye for such things. The man, and it must be a man that wrote this note, is a criminal mastermind.”

I could see that Reeves was about to cough, so I raised a palm to stop him.

“Sherlock Holmes would agree with me, Reeves. What kind of chap leaves a note skewered to another chap’s door with a poker?”

No one could answer.

“Your common or garden criminal would wrap the note around a brick and toss it through the window. Or send a threatening telegram. Or
nail
the note to the door. But
who
uses a poker? It’s not the first thing that springs to mind. Which means...” I paused for effect. “The poker has to be a clue. And only criminal masterminds leave clues on purpose. Everyone else tries their darndest
not
to leave clues. Ipso facto we’re being warned off by a Moriarty of the underworld.”

“Whose name begins with M,” said Emmeline. “Oh! You don’t think...”

I hadn’t until then. Could Moriarty have made it back alive from the Reichenbach Falls? Or been resurrected in orange?

Reeves coughed.

“It
is
widely held, sir, that Professor Moriarty is a fictional character.”

“So he’d want us to believe,” I said. “Next you’ll be telling me that Sherlock Holmes is a figment of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s imagination.”

Reeves and Emmeline exchanged glances. One could tell they didn’t have an answer.

~

We decided to take the note and the poker upstairs for further investigation. As Reeves was extracting the poker from the door, he noticed the oddest thing. The wood around the hole the poker had made was singed. And the blackened marks on the paper were scorch marks. The tip of the poker must have been hot when it was thrust into the door!

Curiouser and curiouser. Who walks around London with a hot poker
other
than a criminal mastermind?

I quizzed Emmeline while Reeves made breakfast.

“Time to come clean, Emmy. Are you on the run or not? I’m buying a false beard and an eye patch this morning. I can easily buy two.”

“That’s very decent of you, Reggie, but I’m not on the run. The magistrate refused to imprison us.”

“Well, that’s a stroke of a luck.”

“No, it isn’t! You weren’t there, Reggie. He treated us like children. He told us to go home to our husbands and fathers and reflect long and hard upon our futures.”

“Have you reflected?”

“I have. Then I looked up the magistrate in
Who’s Who
and found out where he lived.”

This did not bode well.

“I was going to chain myself to his railings this morning but someone stole my chain!”

“No they didn’t. I saw it lying by the gate and rescued it for you. It’s in the hall closet. Your best padlock too.”