Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) (6 page)

“Indeed, sir. And Mortimer begins with an ‘M.’”

~

My mood of despondency evaporated like vintage champagne on Boat Race Night. We knew who ‘M’ was and...

“What else do we know, Reeves? Have we discovered Mortimer’s plan?”

“Not definitively, sir. Though, from his note, we can deduce that it involves Mr Fawkes.”

I took another sip of the restorative nectar. And ruminated. We had one missing regicide (Mortimer, R) one missing failed regicide (Fawkes, G) and tomorrow the Queen (Victoria, R) would be at the H of P for the state opening of parliament. This could not be a coincidence. Murgatroyd of The Yard, the coincidence denier, would have given short shrift to anyone who suggested otherwise.

“There is also the question, sir, as to whether the person who reanimated Sir Roger is party to the conspiracy. It could be he, and not Sir Roger, who is, as you say, the mastermind. Or, equally, he could be an innocent party who reanimated Sir Roger for the truest of reasons only to have that ancient knight turn upon him.”

This was looking more and more like a four-cocktail problem.

“Didn’t Snuggles say he was the only chap reanimating these Necro-what-etheans?”

“Necrometheans, sir. Yes, he did.”

Which would make Snuggles the number one suspect. He had the means. He had the opportunity. But what was his motive? To kill the Queen?

“Why would anyone reanimate two regicides, Reeves? One would think one was enough.”

“I think I may have the answer to that, sir. This article in
The Times
says that the police believe Sir Roger’s tomb was broken into last week. That would indicate that Sir Roger was reanimated
before
Mr Fawkes.”

“With you so far, Reeves, but what has that to do with anything?”

“I was reading an improving book about the Gunpowder Plot last night, sir, and read that the tunnel, which Guy and his fellow conspirators dug under the Houses of Parliament, has never been found — not even during the rebuilding of 1840.”

“So there’s a secret tunnel under the H of P that only Guy knows about?”

“Quite, sir. I would posit that Mr Fawkes’ knowledge of the tunnel is essential to the plan. As to whether the plan is Sir Roger’s or Mr Snuggles’ or, indeed, another person’s, I cannot tell.”

I don’t know if there is such a thing as a five-cocktail problem, but if there is, this was it.

I was deep in thought and olives when a breathless Emmeline burst into the room.

“I’ve found ‘M,’” she said.

~

“It stands for Mortimer,” said Emmeline. “Is there somewhere I can put my banner?”

Emmeline was clutching an impressive banner supported by a carved golden pole some six feet long. The words ‘Votes For Women: Deeds Not Worms’ were embroidered in green and purple on white silk.

“Worms?” I asked, somewhat confused.

“It’s supposed to say ‘words’ but I can soon fix it. I have some purple thread at home, and it
was
half price.”

Reeves took Emmeline’s banner and hat and stowed them in the hall.

“How did you find out about Sir Roger?” I asked. “He hasn’t been buying his own ReVitaCorpse, has he?”

“Who’s Sir Roger?” asked Emmeline.

“Sir Roger Mortimer. You said you’d found him.”

“No. I found
Jasper
Mortimer. He’s bought more ReVitaCorpse than anyone else. Who’s Sir Roger?”

I told her all.

“Edward II?” said Emmeline. “Wasn’t he...? With a...?”

“Yes, miss,” said Reeves. “Which is why I counsel that Sir Roger be treated with extreme caution.”

Emmeline then recounted her tale of sleuthing in Fortnum’s Promethean Essentials Department.

“You wouldn’t believe the items they have on sale there, Reggie. There’s a ‘mix ’n match’ counter with spare tonsils, assorted toes, and fresh spleens. And the sales assistant was orange!”

“It wasn’t Guy by any chance, was it?” I asked.

“No, she was unquestionably a woman. She wouldn’t give me the names of the ReVitaCorpse purchasers at first. But then I noticed her brooch was in the suffragette colours, so I told her I was working on a case for the Pankhursts and she let me see the ledger.”

“Most enterprising of you, miss.”

“I thought so,” said Emmeline. “I copied down all the names, how much they’d bought, and when. Jasper Mortimer bought two whole boxes! That’s twelve pots.”

I took the list from Emmeline and read it. The names covered both sides of the paper in a spidery copperplate hand. Most people bought a single pot. And some names appeared several times. Snuggles had five entries, buying a single pot on each occasion. Scrottleton-Ffoukes was there, too, with a purchase of three pots last week. Jasper Mortimer’s single purchase was ten days ago. A few days before Sir Roger was dug up.

“Pass me the
Who’s Who
, Reeves. This Jasper has got to be a relative.”

It turned out he wasn’t. Or if he was, the connection was so distant that his branch of the family had been pruned from Society’s tree.

But he was in the back of
Old Todger’s Almanac
. Mortimer, Jasper — Practitioner of the Promethean Arts.

“Do you think wielding red hot pokers runs in the family, Reeves? If it did, that warning letter could have come from Jasper.”

“Indeed, sir. Or it could have been written by another party whose intention was to muddy the investigative waters, so turning your attention away from them and towards Sir Roger.”

This is the problem with pitting one’s wits against a criminal mastermind. Bluff, double bluff, red herrings, wild geese and assorted poultry. Nothing is ever straightforward.

“I do notice, sir, that Mr Scrottleton Ffoukes purchased three pots of ReVitaCorpse last week, and Mr Snuggles bought one two days ago. And yet, there were only two pots at the laboratory. One would think it difficult to use two whole pots on Mr Fawkes prior to his reanimation.”

“They
were
pretty large pots,” I agreed.

“The sales assistant said you can expect three or four applications per pot,” said Emmeline.

Snuggles, Scrottleton-Ffoukes, Mortimers R and J. Which one was it? Or were they all working together?

“Surely it can’t be Mr Scrottleton-Ffoukes,” said Emmeline. “He hired you to find out what happened to Guy.”

“All the more reason to suspect him, Emmy. Criminal masterminds see it as a challenge to pit their wits against the world’s finest detectives.”

“So what do we do next?” asked Emmeline.

“If I may be so bold as to offer an opinion, miss. I think the time has come to inform the police. The Queen will be opening Parliament tomorrow morning and there is distinct possibility that an attempt will be made upon her life.”

It pained me to agree with Reeves — we consulting detectives are loath to hand over a case in mid-sleuth — but what else could we do? I was on my fifth cocktail and still nothing had hit me.

“But what do we tell them, Reeves? Should they be looking for a cellar crammed with explosives or a poker-wielding assassin?

“Well, sir, as the tunnel was not discovered in 1840, it cannot provide direct access to the current buildings. And as Mr Fawkes was only reanimated two days ago it is unlikely that the tunnel has been extended to provide that access. Therefore I would posit that their intention is to pack the tunnel with sufficient explosives as to ensure the building’s destruction. Though I could be wrong, sir.”

~

I emerged from the flat feeling particularly braced. My little grey cells were buzzing — or at least something in my head was — and I had a warm feeling in the lower shirt area. I even had an extra bounce to my step.

“Would you like me to drive, sir?” said Reeves.

“No, Reeves. The sun is shining, the birds are ... I can’t hear any birds at the moment but I’m sure they’re somewhere singing their little feathered hearts out. Can you see any birds, Reeves?”

“No, sir. Perhaps if you let me drive—”

“Not another word, Reeves.” I could tell, from the look that Reeves gave me, that one of his subroutines was in danger of malfunctioning.

“Are you sure you won’t let Reeves drive, Reggie. You look a little flushed,” said Emmeline.

“Nonsense. Climb aboard one and all. Next stop Scotland Yard.”

I hadn’t noticed the weather deteriorating, but a blustery wind must have blown in from wherever blustery winds come from — possibly Scotland — as the Stanley kept veering towards oncoming traffic at the most unexpected of times. Emmeline seemed to be enjoying the experience, though, judging by her girlish screams.

“Might I suggest—”

“No you might not, Reeves. We’re nearly there.”

Reeves began suggesting again the moment we reached Scotland Yard.

“Best wait in the car, Reeves,” I said, anxious to keep Reeves’s subroutines from running amuck in the station. “These Scotland Yard inspectors will prefer to talk to me alone — sleuth to sleuth.”

“Are you sure, sir? I would strongly advise against it.”

“Certain and resolute, Reeves. I am a rock of unwavering rockiness.”

“Reggie—”

“Best stay here, Emmy,” I said, lowering my voice. “Keep an eye on Reeves. If he looks like he’s about to run amuck, throw a bucket of water over him.”

I could tell by the look on her face that Emmeline was as concerned about Reeves as I.

Leaving Reeves and Emmeline outside, I marched up to the desk sergeant — a sturdy individual with a fine pair of moustaches — and rapped the Worcester knuckles thrice upon the counter.

“What ho, what ho, what ho, sergeant. I need to talk to your top detective.”

The sergeant looked up from his newspaper. “What would that be about, sir?”

“A plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament! In the course of my investigations — I’m a gentleman’s consulting detective, don’t you know? — I discovered all. It’s going to happen tomorrow morning when the Queen opens Parliament.”

“Have you been drinking, sir?”

“Only for detectival .... detectivicidal ... detect...” What was the sleuthing equivalent of medicinal? Sleuthicidal? When in doubt, deny all. “No.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Of course I’m sure! Don’t you want to know the names of the conspirators. I have them all.”

“Very well, sir. What are their names?” The sergeant opened his notebook and picked up a pencil.

“Well, there’s Guy Fawkes, for one.”

The sergeant put down his pencil and gave me a look.

“
The
Guy Fawkes?”

“That’s the chap. He’s been dug up and he’s not best pleased.”

I’m not often escorted
out
of a police station. But that’s what happened — Reginald Worcester given the bum’s rush and deposited outside on the pavement!

“They didn’t believe me,” I told Reeves as he helped me up.

“Perhaps if I tried, sir?”

“No, Reeves. For some reason they seem to have taken against Guy. The moment you mention his name, they throw you out.”

“I could say it was the suffragettes,” said Emmeline. “At least then they’d start a search for the explosives.”

Could a detective have a better fiancée!

“What do you think, Reeves? Sounds a corker to me.”

“Indeed, sir, though I would recommend that Miss Emmeline wait a short while as the sergeant might not take too kindly to two reports of gunpowder plots within a short space of time.”

We adjourned to a nearby tea room where I was plied with black coffee. I tried to tell them there was no need — that when it comes to sobering a chap up, having one’s collar felt by the Old Bill beats black coffee hands down — but they would have none of it.

Two scones later, we returned to Scotland Yard. As I watched Emmeline climb the steps, I felt a pang. A gentleman does not let his fiancée walk into the lion’s police den alone. What if she were arrested? The sergeant might suspect she was one of suffragettes plotting to blow up the Houses of P.

“I think I should be with her, Reeves. I know you won’t advise it, but if you pass me that beard and eye patch — they’re in the locker behind the seat — I’ll nip in and stand unobtrusively at the back.”

“Perhaps if
I
went in, sir—”

“No, Reeves. She’s my fiancée.”

I slipped in through the door, closed it quietly, and found a bench at the back of the lobby where I could sit and observe. Emmeline was next in line at the counter. The man ahead of her departed and Emmeline stepped forward.

“Good afternoon, sergeant,” she said. “I’d like to report a plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament.”

“It’s not Guy Fawkes again, is it?”

“No, it’s the suffragettes.”

The sergeant shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry yourself about that, miss. Women can’t build bombs. It’s too complex for the female mind.”

“Pardon?”

“Building bombs, miss. It’s something only men can do.”

“I have never heard such patronising twaddle,” said Emmeline. “Have you never heard of Marie Curie?”

“On the music hall, is she, miss?”

“No she is
not
on the music hall, sergeant. She is a world famous scientist who won the Nobel prize for Physics this year! She could build a better bomb than any man.”

The sergeant laughed. It has been my observation that earnest young ladies in full flow do not appreciate laughter.

Emmeline snatched the sergeant’s pencil and, with a flourish, snapped it in two.

“Here! What did you do that for, miss?”

“I’m only a woman, sergeant. How could I possibly have the strength to snap a big manly pencil? You must have done it.”

“Now look here—”

“Watch out, sergeant. I expect you’re about to throw your helmet out onto the street next.”

Knowing the deep bond that exists between a policeman and his helmet, I thought it time to intervene.

“Nefertiti!” I cried, striding over to the counter. “Time to go home.”

Emmeline turned and glared at me. If I’d had a pencil on me I would have feared for its safety.

“Do you know this young lady, sir?” asked the sergeant.

“She’s my sister, Nefertiti Blenkinsop of the Cairo Blenkinsops. Come Nefi, time to go home.”

“I will
not
go home! Where’s Reeves? He can fetch my chain.”