Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) (5 page)

“Oh, Reggie!”

Nothing says love more than twenty feet of quarter-inch Tiffany chain.

~

After breakfast, feeling full of vim and kippers, I pulled down a copy of
Who’s Who
from the bookshelf and began looking for M’s.

Ten minutes later I’d discovered that Scrottleton-Ffoukes was an Edward George and Snuggles wasn’t illustrious enough to even rate a mention.

“Is there a
Burke’s Book of Mad Scientists
, Reeves?” I asked as the giant brain entered the room.

“Surprisingly not, sir.”

“He might be in a Kelly’s Directory,” said Emmeline. “Do you have any?”

“No, miss. But my inquiries at the newsagents led me to this.” He held up a slim publication I didn’t recognise. “
Old Todger’s Almanac
, sir. A list of practitioners of the Promethean arts can be found at the back.”

“It can? Is Snuggles in there?” I asked.

“He is, sir. A Mr Felix Snuggles.”

“Descended from a long line of cat lovers, do you think?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, sir.”

“Does he have a brother called Tibbles?” asked Emmeline.

“And a sister called Fluffy!” I added.

“Quite,” said Reeves. “Shall I prepare the Stanley, sir? I imagine you will wish to visit Fortnum’s Promethean Essentials department presently.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To obtain a list of customers who have bought jars of ReVitaCorpse, sir.”

“Oh, that! No, too obvious, Reeves. You have to remember we’re dealing with a criminal mastermind now, and you don’t catch criminal masterminds by doing the obvious. They’re far too clever. They’d have used a false name and probably a false beard as well. No, Reeves, we will do the unexpected.”

“Which is, sir?”

“We shall return in disguise to the butcher’s. Even a criminal mastermind can’t fool a dog’s nose.”

“I would not recommend such an action, sir. It is my contention that the only thing filling Farquharson’s nose was the scent of sausages.”

“I wouldn’t write off Farquharson that quickly, Reeves. His faults may be legion, but his heart’s in the right place. Although there was that strange lump by his right shoulder. Did it appear to be beating to you, Reeves, or was that his canine muscles quivering for the chase?”

“I tried not to look too closely, sir. I had the opinion that Farquharson was not well-disposed to being stared at.”

“What was the butcher’s name?” asked Emmeline.

“A Mr Ernest Durrant, miss. He is not ‘M.’”

“But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t work for ‘M,’” I said. “You yourself brought up the mummy-eating connection. And mummy-eating is just the sort of thing a criminal mastermind would get involved in.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I do say so, Reeves.” It may have been the presence of Emmeline or it may have been Reeves’s disapproving face, but I felt it was time for the young master to exert some authority. “We are going to the butcher’s and we are
both
going in disguise.”

“I think not, sir.”

“Do I have to remind you of your previous life in a cupboard, Reeves? And how it was Worcester, R who freed you from a life of perpetual dust-gathering and spiders?”

“No, sir.”

“
I
could always go Fortnum’s,” said Emmeline. “I was thinking of buying a new placard and there’s a sale on in the Suffragette Accessories Department.”

~

With Emmeline on the trail of ReVitaCorpse, I dragged a reluctant Reeves to the establishment of Thos. Garderobe, theatrical costumier and purveyor of prime partywear.

“Yes you
do
have to be in disguise, Reeves. He’s seen your face!”

“I would strongly suggest, sir, that only one of us need enter the shop.”

“Four eyes and ears are better than two, Reeves. We won’t have long in the shop and we need to see and hear all. I can distract him while you root around in the sawdust looking for trap doors. Now Thos, my good man, two of your finest beards, extra long.”

Five minutes later I was regarding myself in the mirror through my one patchless eye.

“I think there’s something missing, Reeves, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“A parrot, sir?”

If it hadn’t been for Reeves’s sniffy face I might have been tempted. “There’s many a true word spoken in sarcasm, Reeves. Would
you
like a parrot?”

“No, sir.”

“Then neither will I. We will visit the butcher’s parrotless.”

I had to attach Reeves’s beard and eye patch myself as, according to Reeves, one of his subroutines had an aversion to facial hair. Something about Babbage’s Second Law of Automata —
an automaton must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with good taste
.

One day I will have a serious word with Reeves about his subroutines.

We left the costumiers looking like a pair of seafaring anarchists. Even Emmeline wouldn’t have recognised us!

“Am I allowed to make a suggestion, sir?” said Reeves as we climbed back into the Stanley.

“Does it involve shedding your disguise?”

“No, sir.”

“Then suggest away, Reeves.”

“It would be wise not to park outside the butcher’s in case anyone recognises the Stanley, sir.”

Even a sulking Reeves is a treasure beyond compare.

I parked the Stanley by Parliament Gate as it was only a short walk from there to the butcher’s. As with yesterday, there appeared to be a small protest in progress. Not suffragettes this time, but a Promethean.

“Votes for Prometheans! One man, one vote!” shouted the odd-looking man who was dressed in what appeared to be a patchwork suit.

“Don’t Prometheans have the vote?” I asked Reeves.

“Apparently not, sir, or they wouldn’t be demonstrating.”

I gave Reeves a hard look. It was difficult to ascertain — what with the whiskers and the eye patch — whether Reeves had his sniffy face on, but I rather suspected he had.

“Dr Watson never objects to wearing a disguise, Reeves.”

“It is my recollection, sir, that it is always Mr Holmes who wears disguises. Dr Watson does not.”

I was about to launch into a spirited monologue on the crime wave that would result if sidekicks refused the just requests of their young masters when I was tapped on the shoulder by the demonstrating Promethean.

“Tell me, sir. Do you believe in one man, one vote?”

“What?”

“One man, one vote. Are you for or against it?”

“Er ... for, I think.”

“Aha! Well, I’m made from five men, so I should get five votes!”

“I think the intention was one
whole
man, one vote,” I said.

“Oh, so you think amputees should have a partial vote, do you? What about midgets? Do they get half a vote?”

This was entering deep philosophical waters. “Reeves, do you have an opinion?”

“As an unemancipated mechanical construct, sir, I am not sure I am allowed an opinion.”

“Reeves, you must stop this sniffiness, at once. You know if I were handing out votes, you’d have ten. Fifteen if you’d had a kipper for breakfast.”

“Votes for our automaton brothers!” shouted the Promethean. “Would you like a placard, comrade?”

“I think not,” said Reeves.

“’ere,” said a rough-looking onlooker. “’Ow do we know all your donors were men? It’s one
man
, one vote. You might ’ave been given a woman’s kidney.”

“Yeah,” said another. “And your left arm looks female to me.”

“No, it doesn’t!” shouted the Promethean.

“Yes, it does. And that foot looks like a trotter.”

These were deep philosophical waters indeed, but strangely compelling. A few more passers-by stopped to watch as the Promethean — in between hops — removed a shoe and a sock.

“There!” he said. “That’s a
man’s
foot and no mistake!”

“A dead man’s foot,” said onlooker number two. “Look, you can see the stitches.”

“So?” said the Promethean.

“Dead men can’t vote. It’s one
live
man, one vote. Otherwise you’d have to emancipate the graveyards.”

“And why not?” said the Promethean. “Votes for the dead! Emancipate our deceased brethren!”

I had thought I’d long scaled the heights of Boggledom, but here was a peak unclimbed. The dead, the reanimated, the mechanical. Was there anyone who wouldn’t be allowed to vote? It would appear that only the insane and the royal family would remain barred from voting in this brave new future. Which let George III out on both counts, even if they dug him up.

~

The premises of Ernest Durrant, Family Butcher, were little changed from our previous visit — with the one exception that no one was pinned to the sawdust by a large misshapen dog. The tiled walls gleamed; assorted sides of meat hung from a rail in the ceiling; and a large red-faced man in a white apron dispensed chops and sausages to a line of expectant customers.

“See anything unusual?” I whispered to Reeves.

“Only us, sir.”

I gave Reeves as hard a stare as a one-eyed man could muster. And wondered if Watson ever rebelled against the Great Sleuth, and whether he’d write it down if he had.

The queue shuffled forward as customers came and went. I cast a single eye around the establishment, looking for that one case-breaking clue that we consulting detectives usually discover by page 153.

But the clue-cupboard was bare. I would have to try something else.

“Do you have any special cuts?” I asked the butcher as soon I reached the counter. “Something aged, if you know what I mean?”

“I ’ave some beef that’s been well ’ung, sir.”

“Jacobean beef, is it?”

“It
is
Scottish, sir. Finest Angus.”

“Angus who?”

“Angus ... steak, sir?”

I turned to Reeves and whispered. “Do we know an Angus Stake, Reeves? Was he one of Guy’s co-conspirators?”

“I think the butcher is referring to a breed of Highland cattle know as the Angus, sir.”

“Oh.” I turned back to the butcher. “Do you have anything a bit older? For medicinal purposes.”

“’ere, what’s your game? Do you want some meat or not?”

“Most certainly. The older the better. Egyptian, Assyrian—”

“’ere, don’t I know you? Weren’t you in ’ere yesterday with that dog? I recognise your voice.”

“No,” I said, pitching my voice a good half an octave lower. “I’ve never been here before, have I, Reeves?”

“Reeves!” said the butcher. “That was the name of the other one! It
is
you.”

There are times in an investigation when a consulting detective has to beat a hasty r. This was one of them.

ack at the flat, beardless and clueless, I sipped on a despondent cocktail.

Even the restorative properties of gin were hard-pressed to lift my mood. I’d been sure that I’d find a clue to the identity of ‘M’ at Ernest Durrant’s meat emporium but ... not a sausage. ‘Sausage’ as in clue, that is. There were plenty of the pork and beef variety.

Perhaps my little grey cells needed a distraction to get them re-charged? I picked up my freshly-ironed copy of
The Times
and began to peruse.

There was an article about the forthcoming state opening of Parliament. No mention of any threats to blow it up though. And no stories about any criminal masterminds whose name began with an ‘M’ either.

Reeves came in to refresh my drink as I turned to the last page.

“Keep them coming, Reeves. You see before you a despondent Reginald.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“One wonders what the world is coming to, Reeves. I had hoped to find an uplifting story and what do I find? Page after page of dire warnings and gloom. And to top it all, here’s a story about grave robbers digging up Sir Roger Mortimer and carrying him off for spare parts! I ask you, is anyone safe these days?”

“Does it say which Sir Roger Mortimer, sir?”

I read further. “The Third Baron Mortimer. It says here he was interred in 1330.”

“Ah.”

It was a meaningful ‘ah’ and not a hint of sniffiness. “You’ve heard of him, Reeves?”

“Indeed, sir. I fear this may be connected with the disappearance of Mr Fawkes.”

I sat up. “Not another relative digging up his ancient a. with a view to righting history’s wrongs?”

“That is one possibility, sir. But there is also another. Sir Roger Mortimer was a regicide.“

I almost fell off the
chaise longue
. “You mean ... he killed Reggies?”

“No, sir. The word comes from the latin
Regis.
”

“As in Bognor?”

“Indeed, sir. It means ‘of the King.’”

I racked a grey cell or two trying to come up with the name of the chap who’d been king in the 1330s but couldn’t get much beyond Richard the Lion Tamer. History has never been my subject — far too many dates.

“Which King did he kill?” I asked.

“Edward II, sir. You may recall the incident with the red hot poker.”

“No. What did he do with it? Hit him on the head with it?”

“Not exactly the head, sir.”

“Where?”

“I’d rather not say, sir.”

“Too gory for your mechanical sensibilities?”

“One could say that, sir.”

“Wait a minute! That note was pinned to our door with a hot poker!”