Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) (8 page)

~

As he was coming from Parliament Square there was a good chance that Reeves, or even Emmeline, would have spotted him earlier and were in hot pursuit. But I didn’t dare turn around to look. Instead I decided to kneel down and re-tie my shoelace in case Mr S-F looked my way and wondered what that chap lurking in the shadows was up to.

He passed by. I waited until he was twenty yards away, then turned. And found Reeves looming over me. A situation that caused me to lose my balance and teeter somewhat before the steadying hand of the steam-powered valet fastened upon my shoulders and helped me to my feet.

“I signalled to Mr Blenkinsop earlier, sir,” he whispered. “He will be with us shortly.”

I looked over Reeves’s shoulder and, sure enough, the bearded form of Rameses Blenkinsop was hurrying towards us.

As for Scrottleton-Ffoukes, he disappeared around the corner into Great Scott Street. Reeves and I waited for a carriage to pass then crossed the road and ankled it down to the corner, where we paused. One doesn’t want to get too close to one’s quarry as quarries have a habit of turning round at inconvenient moments. We waited a few seconds more, then strolled nonchalantly around the corner.

The street was empty. There was not even the sound of footsteps — except from behind as Rameses Blenkinsop joined the party.

“Where is he?” she whispered.

There were only two places he could be. He couldn’t have legged it all the way down to Smith Street — it was too far and we would have heard him running. He’d either turned into Little Scott Street, or entered one of the buildings.

We tried Little Scott Street first, peeking around the corner. It was a cul-de-sac. And empty.

He must have oiled into one of the buildings. But which one? Not one of them had a light on.

We split up and scoured the Scott Streets, both great and small. We listened at keyholes. We tried doors. But not a sound could be heard from within, and not a single door was unlocked.

“Do you think he realised he was being followed?” asked Emmeline.

I shrugged. I didn’t think he had but ... for someone to disappear so swiftly and with so little trace...

“There is the possibility, sir, that the gentleman may not be in any of the buildings.”

“You have an idea, Reeves?”

“I did notice there was a manhole cover as we turned into Great Smith Street, sir.”

The sewers!

~

I wasn’t exactly dressed for the sewers and, truth to tell, I’m not sure what the correct attire would be, but we Worcesters are made of stern stuff. If a trail leads into a dark, dank sewer, we follow.

Reeves raised the square manhole cover and all three of us peered inside. A metal ladder descended into the darkness. How far down it went I couldn’t see.

“Might I suggest, sir, that we avail ourselves of one of the oil lamps from the Stanley?”

I legged it back to the Stanley and drove it back at speed. Detaching one of the lamps was but the work of a moment. I handed it to Reeves. “Do you think we need one each?” I asked.

“There’s only two,” said Emmeline. “There are three of us.”

“You’re not going down the sewers, Emmy.”

“Why not?” said Emmeline, her beard bristling.

“Because we need someone on the outside,” I said. “In case something happens to us.”

“If we don’t return within the hour, miss,” said Reeves. “We will need someone to call the police.”

“They won’t believe me!” said Emmy.

“You’ll think of something,” I said.

Down into the depths of sewerdom we went. I don’t know if you’ve ever been inside a sewer, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Ours, according to Reeves, was a side channel and thankfully dry. It was about six feet high and three feet wide with a curved brick-built floor and ceiling. It wasn’t as foul smelling as I’d feared, but it wasn’t something I’d bottle.

After ten yards this side channel joined up with a larger sewer which Reeves had the notion might be the remains of the old Tyburn river.

“It was diverted in the Middle Ages, sir. It’s original course ran—”

I had to interrupt. There are times — I’m not sure when, but I’m sure there are — when a guided tour of historic London sewers might be just the ticket, but now was not one of them.

“Which way, Reeves? Left or right?”

“Left, sir. That will take us to Parliament Square.”

This new sewer was about twenty feet across and fifteen feet high with a small channel in the centre where the remains of the Tyburn flowed murkily.

Off we toddled along its left bank, pausing every now and again to turn the wick of our lamps low and listen. Not a sausage. No distant light up ahead from a flickering lamp, nor the echo of foot upon brick.

Until...

“I believe I see a light, sir,” whispered Reeves.

“Where?” I couldn’t see a thing.

“Halfway up the far wall of that side channel, sir.”

I still couldn’t see a thing. I could barely make out the opening of the side channel. But then I didn’t have Reeves’s augmented sight.

We crossed the once mighty Tyburn, jumping the three-foot channel, and made our way up some rough steps to Reeves’s side channel. I still couldn’t see a light. The passage didn’t go that far back and the brick walls beyond the entrance were old and braced by timber supports.

Reeves moved his lamp away from the entrance and motioned for me to do the same. As the darkness descended I saw the faintest of flickers coming from the old brick wall.

~

The light vanished. I thought I heard something — footsteps or maybe the scrape of boot dragging across a floor. But I may have been mistaken.

We waited an age before Reeves was sure it was safe, then we turned up our wicks and gave the wall a sleuthing once-over. It was as I expected. A piece of mortar had become dislodged and there was a small hole in the brick wall. Reeves used his fingers to pull a little more mortar out, then managed to extract an entire brick.

He held up his lamp to the hole and looked through.

“It does look like an ancient tunnel, sir,” he whispered.

It didn’t take long to remove the other bricks. The mortar was old and crumbled as soon as any pressure was exerted upon it. We soon had a hole a chap could step through without bending his back in two.

“Do you have your service revolver, sir?” whispered Reeves.

I most certainly did. I took it out and gave it a good waggle.

“Before we go any farther, Reeves, there’s something I need to know. We’re both men of the world and all that. So, tell me, how exactly did Edward II die? I have a feeling you’ve been holding something back.”

“Sir?”

“No sirring, Reeves. I want the truth.”

“Very good, sir. Edward II succumbed to an inflammation of the bowels.”

“What? I thought you said he was killed with a red hot poker.”

“The poker was the source of the inflammation, sir.”

“Oh.
Oh!
”

It was a subdued Reginald Worcester who stepped gingerly into the ancient tunnel. Would Sir Roger recognise a service revolver if I pointed it at him? Would he care?

The tunnel didn’t look that safe either. The walls and floor were earthen, braced at intervals by timber supports. Irregular planks formed a makeshift ceiling. And the floor was dotted with mounds of earth where the ceiling had partially collapsed, or soil had seeped through the joins.

“Which way to the Houses of P, Reeves?” I whispered.

“I would counsel we went in the other direction, sir.”

“Why?”

“So that we can locate the entrance to the tunnel, sir, and inform the police.”

Exiting the tunnel had the ring of a sound plan to me.

Reeves took the lead, holding his lamp out before him and occasionally having to stoop to avoid a dislodged plank hanging down from the roof. I followed, keeping a weather eye to the rear in case Sir Roger crept up behind us.

Reeves suddenly stopped without warning and I bumped into him.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“It’s Mr Snuggles, sir,” said Reeves. “He’s pointing a revolver at us.”

“What?” I poked my head over Reeves’s shoulder and, sure enough, there he was — Snuggles — a lamp in one hand and a revolver in the other. And he wasn’t alone. There was a hooded figure behind him. A hooded figure with something long and pokery in his right hand!

“How did you get in here?” shouted Snuggles.

“Never you mind,” I said, levelling the service revolver at him. “Put the weapon down, Snuggles. The game is up.”

“The service revolver is empty,” announced Reeves. “Mr Worcester has no bullets.”

eeves!” I was shocked.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s for your own good. Mr Snuggles’ plan to blow up the Houses of Parliament has considerable merit and should be supported.”

“What? Have you gone mad, Reeves?”

“No, sir. I have made a careful analysis of the arguments for and against the destruction of the Palace of Westminster and reached the conclusion that Britain would be better off without it. I am therefore giving notice that I am switching sides. If that’s all right with you, of course, Mr Snuggles.”

I was lost for words. My mouth opened but not a breath could make it past my tonsils. Reeves of all people! Deserting the young master in his hour of need!

“How do I know I can trust you?” asked Snuggles.

“I am an automaton, sir. If I give you my word, it cannot be broken. It’s Babbage’s Fourth Law of Automata.”

“Ha!” I said. “You’ve just broken your word to me!”

“I never gave you my word, sir. You never asked for it.”

“Well!”

“Do I have your word that you will assist us?” asked Snuggles.

“You do. I am stronger than a human. I can help carry the explosives.”

“Et tu, Judas!” I said. “Take your traitorous subroutines and depart.” I waved the revolver at him before pointing it firmly back at Snuggles. “Comrade Reeves is mistaken. This revolver is the very opposite of empty. If anything it’s overfull. I have two up the spout.”

“He does not,” said Reeves.

“Yes, I do!”

“Put the pistol down, Worcester,” said Snuggles. “Or I’ll send in Sir Roger.”

We consulting detectives are renowned for our bravery. Put us in a sticky sitch and our upper lips stiffen and our gazes turn steely. We laugh at danger and have a merry quip handy for whenever we’re being tortured. But...

I didn’t like the look of Sir Roger’s poker. It may not have been red hot but it looked markedly above ambient temperature. And it was dark. And I rather had the notion that a spider, or some other creepy crawly with far too many legs, had just dropped down my neck.

“Stay where you are, Sir Roger!” I said, gripping the revolver harder to stop it from shaking.

Sir Roger smiled medievally and gave his poker a suggestive waggle.

My knees almost gave way. I searched for a merry quip or a biting line of poetry but couldn’t find anything cutting to rhyme with poker.

Sir Roger took one step towards me and my legs turned to consommé. I dropped the revolver and lamp, and would have raised both hands if one of them hadn’t been protecting my rear trouser area.

“I yield!” I said.

~

I was escorted along the tunnel, with Sir Roger, and his poker, thankfully in front of me, while Reeves and Snuggles brought up the rear. I thought they were taking me towards the entrance, but our column came to halt when we encountered the seated figure of Scrottleton-Ffoukes. He was sitting on the floor with his hands bound behind his back and tied to a timber upright.

“Mr Worcester?” he said. “Are you in this, too?”

“Mr Worcester is going to play your co-conspirator,” said Snuggles. “When the police find the pair of you in the tunnel with a detonator, they won’t seek to look any further. Reeves, tie Worcester up. You can use his tie and belt. And secure him to that prop so he can’t run off without bringing the roof down.”

As diabolical plans went this was pretty diabolical ... though flawed. Co-conspirators rarely tie themselves up before detonating bombs. I thought I’d refrain from pointing this out, though, as criminal masterminds can cut up pretty rough.

“But why are you doing this, Snuggles?” asked Mr S-F. “I don’t understand.”