Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) (7 page)

“Reeves isn’t real, Nefi. You know he’s imaginary.”

“Like your beard?” said Emmeline. “This is a point of principle,
Nebbie
. I’m not leaving until the sergeant takes this bomb threat seriously.”

“Wait a minute!” said the sergeant, eyeing me suspiciously. “Weren’t you in here earlier? I recognise that buttonhole of yours. What are you up to?”

There comes a time when one knows for certain that the game is up. The only card I had left in my hand was the truth, and it’s been my experience that the truth never plays as well as it should.

“You’ve got to stop the opening of Parliament, sergeant,” I said. “It’s not just Guy Fawkes. It’s Sir Roger Mortimer, too. He has this red-hot poker. I don’t know where he intends to put it, but—”

“Constable!” shouted the sergeant. “Get the cells ready. We’ve got a proper pair here and no mistake.”

“Excuse me, sergeant,” said the unmistakable voice of Reeves who had suddenly materialised by my shoulder. “I am Doctor Freud and these two are my patients. Come, Nefertiti, Nebuchadnezzar, leave the good sergeant alone.”

“I am
not
leaving!” said Emmeline.

“It is your choice, miss,” said Reeves. “You can either be locked up by the sergeant or return to the sanatorium with me.”

“Sanatorium?” said the custodian of the law.

“Yes, sergeant, you may have observed that both these persons are somewhat disturbed. Nefertiti is a danger to both herself and others. And Nebuchadnezzar is an idiot.”

“I say!” I said. “Steady on.”

“If your constable would hold open the door, sergeant, I will escort them both from the premises.”

returned to the flat in a dark mood. How could we warn the police if no one believed us! And was that the reason such larger-than-life characters as Guy and Sir Roger had been recruited — to ensure any warning given to the authorities would be treated with ridicule?

And, to make matters worse, we’d run out of gin.

“Are you sure, Reeves?”

“Positive, sir. Would you like some warm milk? I hear it is beneficial for the brain.”

I eyed Reeves with suspicion, and had a good mind to conduct a search of the butler’s pantry, for I was sure I’d seen at least two bottles of the restorative nectar the previous evening.

But good manners prevailed. “Could you rustle up some kippers while you’re at it, Reeves? I think we’re going to need all the fish we can eat.”

The kippers went down a treat. I could feel their replenishing powers on my little grey cells which, up to then, had been feeling more green than grey. But what next? In less than twenty-four hours the Houses of Parliament would be opened a lot wider than people were expecting. And only Reginald Worcester stood between the Queen and a red-hot poker.

I puffed on a contemplative cheroot.

What would Sherlock Holmes do? Would he find out where Jasper Mortimer, Snuggles and Scrottleton-Ffoukes lived and wait outside their homes until they led him to the tunnel? I didn’t think there was time. And what if we followed the wrong one just as he set off for a week’s holiday in Paris?

“Perhaps if we stopped the ceremony,” said Emmeline. “I could chain myself to the gates and stop the Queen entering parliament. Then the bomb would go off and no one would get hurt.”

“They’d cut your chains and whisk you away, Emmy. It wouldn’t delay them more than five minutes.”

“I think I may have a solution, sir,” said Reeves as he cleared away the plates.

“You do?”

“Yes, sir. To create an explosion large enough to bring down the Houses of Parliament would require a considerable amount of explosives.”

“I see where you’re going with this, Reeves. Where would one buy explosives? Do Fortnum’s sell gelignite hampers?”

“Unlikely, sir. But I don’t think we need to ascertain
where
the explosives are coming from as we know their destination.”

“The Houses of Parliament!”

“Exactly, sir. One would imagine that a consignment of that size would necessitate a large cart or, indeed, a barge. And it would take some time to unload.”

My rejuvenated little grey cells could see it all. “And the tunnel entrance has got to be pretty close to Parliament. So if we three patrol the surrounding area looking for suspicious deliveries, we’ll have them!”

“What if they’ve already unloaded the explosives?” asked Emmeline.

“I suspect not, miss. One would think, after three hundred years of fires and rebuilding, that London would look considerable changed to Mr Fawkes. More than likely the entrance to the tunnel has been blocked or even built over, so, one would suspect, that it would take some time to gain access to it.”

~

Off we went to Parliament Square where, thankfully, no one was protesting. The dead and the deranged would no doubt take their turn tomorrow to demand the vote.

“Be on the lookout for Snuggles, Scrottleton-Ffoukes or anyone orange,” I said. “And any strange carts or wagons. We’ll meet back here in ... what do you think, Reeves? An hour?”

“Sixty minutes should prove sufficient to undertake a preliminary inspection, sir.”

I set off at a nonchalant pace as if on an afternoon stroll. Sometimes I took in the sights to my left and sometimes I took in the sights to my right, but never with the gimlet eye of the suspicious policeman. We consulting detectives prefer to observe inconspicuously — to blend into the background — and today I was Nebuchadnezzar Blenkinsop’s less furtive cousin, Sennacherib, out for an afternoon stroll.

I wandered the streets around Whitehall. I ambled along the Victoria Embankment. I stopped for a while on Westminster Bridge to contemplate the river...

And saw nothing. There were no barges moored alongside Parliament. No suspicious carts parked in side streets, and no sign of anyone remotely orange.

Emmeline and Reeves reported a similar lack of findings when I joined them later.

“What do we do now?” asked Emmeline. “I have to be home in an hour. Mother was adamant that I couldn’t miss tea two days running.”

I was at a loss. If Reeves was right, and he invariably was, there should be a cartload of explosives waiting to be unloaded. But where was it?

“Do you think Farquharson could sniff out dynamite, Reeves?” I asked.

“I would question his olfactory abilities, sir, and fear he would once more lead us to the nearest purveyor of fine meats.”

Or, even worse, to the Abbey. With Farquharson’s antipathy towards the clergy anything could happen.

“It is possible, sir,” continued Reeves. “That the conspirators have delayed the unloading of the explosives until the cover of darkness.”

Cometh the hour, cometh the brain.

“We’ll meet here again at ten then,” I said.

“I can’t,” said Emmeline. “Father won’t allow me out at night without a chaperone.”

I recalled that young Jane Marple, girl detective, had a similar problem in
The Axe Murderer in the Fourth Form
.

“It won’t be that beastly maid again will it?” I asked. My memory was still raw from the last time. The woman had an opinion on everything, an opinion that was universally scathing.

“I am
not
bringing Agnes!” said Emmeline. “I’ll go to my room and shin down the drainpipe.”

Jane Marple had come to a similar conclusion, though Jane had taken the extra precaution of adding a sleeping draught to her parents’ cocoa.

Reeves coughed. “I foresee a slight problem, sir.”

“What kind of a problem?” I asked. “You don’t require a chaperone, do you, Reeves?”

“No, sir. I was thinking that Miss EmmeIine’s presence may be misinterpreted. A young lady standing alone on a street corner for a long period may draw unwelcome attention.”

“Oh!”

“We will have to observe together, Emmy,” I said.

“But that would reduce our numbers from three to two. We need eyes to the north, south and west of Parliament, Reggie.”

“What we need are the Baker Street Irregulars,” I said. “Does Mayfair have any street urchins, Reeves?”

“Not that I have noticed, sir.”

“Pity. Sherlock Holmes swears by them.”

“I’ll wear a disguise!” said Emmeline. “Can I borrow your beard? And some clothes?”

~

Back at the flat, Reeves helped Emmeline raid my wardrobe, and returned presently with the chosen garments wrapped in a brown paper parcel.

“If anyone asks,” said Emmeline. “I’ll say it’s clothes for the poor. Are you sure you don’t mind if I take the trousers in a little, Reggie? I could pin them if you’d rather.”

“No, you keep them. One never knows when a good disguise will come in handy. Are you sure you don’t want the eye patch?”

“Positive. I’ll need both eyes tonight.”

I drove Emmeline back to her house and, with a merry wave, swung the Stanley through a quick 180 and steamed back to Charles Street. I found Reeves in the kitchen preparing sandwiches.

“This red hot poker business, Reeves.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I was mulling things over in the car and ... what exactly did Sir Roger do with this poker? Hit the king on the head? Stabbed him in the vitals?”

“Close to the vitals, sir.”

“Come on, Reeves. A chap has to know how to defend himself. If I see Sir Roger bounding towards me tonight with a red hot poker in his hand, what should I do?”

“Refrain from turning your back on him, sir.”

“Ah, likes to come at you from behind, does he?”

“One could say that, sir.”

I stole a sandwich and nibbled pensively. I didn’t like the idea of facing Sir Roger unarmed. Perhaps if I carried a stout walking stick or, even better...

“I think I may need a service revolver, Reeves.”

“I would strongly advise against it, sir.”

“Dr Watson always carries one.”

“I believe Dr Watson was in the armed forces, sir. He would have received training.”

“It can’t be that hard to point and shoot.”

“I am afraid, sir, that I will be unable to assist you in this endeavour as I am restrained by Babbage’s First Law of Automata — that an automaton may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow one to come to harm.”

“But that’s why I need the revolver, Reeves. To stop me from coming to harm.”

“I was thinking more of the innocent bystanders who might be in the vicinity whilst you were protecting yourself with the aforementioned weapon, sir. Revolvers are wont to be unpredictable in excitable hands.”

“I wouldn’t have it loaded, Reeves. I’m not going to shoot people. I’m going to point it at them and make them think I’m going to shoot.”

“That would be acceptable, sir.”

“Good. Do they come in different sizes, Reeves? I’d like one in small, if possible. With a light blue handle to match my new spats.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

~

I hadn’t appreciated just how large and heavy a service revolver was.

“Was this the smallest they had?” I asked Reeves on his return from Fortnum’s Arms and the Gentleman Department.

“I was of the opinion, sir, that a larger weapon would be necessary to ensure it was seen. Unless you were standing under a street light I fear a smaller pistol would go unnoticed and, ergo, negate its value as a deterrent.”

As ever the logic of the giant brain could not be faulted, though I think a smaller revolver in bright yellow would have served equally well.

At half past nine, with both Reeves and the Stanley up to pressure, we set off. Emmeline was waiting for us by Parliament Gate and I must say she looked surprisingly attractive for a man with an eighteen-inch beard.

“What ho, Emmy,” I said as I jumped down from the Stanley.

“I’m not Emmy,” said a husky voice from somewhere deep within the beard. “Tonight I’m Rameses Blenkinsop.”

“Right ho,” I said. One has to marvel at the size and creativity of the Blenkinsop clan. “Did you have any trouble exiting Dreadnought towers, Rameses?”

“Only when I kept trapping my beard climbing down the drainpipe. I think I’ll take it off when I climb back in.”

I nodded sagely. It’s well known in sleuthing circles that you don’t find many full-bearded cat burglars.

We each reprised our afternoon roles, again with no luck and this time there was a particularly chilly wind coming off the river. I could have done with a beard myself.

We met up at ten and again at eleven, whereupon we adjourned to the Abingdon Hotel for a bracing pot of hot tea.

“What if we never see anyone?” asked Rameses née Emmeline. “How long do we wait?”

It’s a consulting detective’s lot to keep up the spirits of his team during low times. A cheery word, a slap on the back, a ‘once more unto the stakeout, dear friends’ type of speech. I rather favoured the idea of a stirring song but Reeves was against it — something about Babbage again. I think Babbage must have been a stern and uncompromising fellow.

Out we went again, but this time, following the adage that a change is as good as a rest, we swapped our patrol areas. I did one spell around Parliament Square and then toddled down to Millbank. The streets were pretty empty by this time and an icy mist had begun to drift in from the river. That’s when I saw Scrottleton-Ffoukes striding along the pavement on the opposite side of the road. I pulled up my collar and turned away.