The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (18 page)

“It’s certainly a possibility,” I said. “Do any of these new actors have an American accent?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” said Henry. “Morrow?”

“All the prometheans and automata at the studio are British, I believe,” said Morrow. “Though we do occasionally borrow extra automata from Stapleford for crowd scenes. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard his automata speak.”

“Stapleford has a lot of automata, does he?” I asked.

“About a dozen, I should think,” said Morrow.

“I’ve known Stapleford for years,” said Henry. “He’s a thoroughly decent chap. He wouldn’t get mixed up with any plot to kill anyone.”

“He might not knowingly be involved,” I said. “What if he woke up one morning and found an automaton on his doorstep looking for work and offering his services for free. Stapleford’s first thought wouldn’t be ‘Are you an assassin sent from America?’”

“I’ll ask him,” said Henry. “I’ll be seeing him at the studio in an hour.”

“You’re not intending to
work
today, are you?” said Lady Julia.

“Well, yes,” said Henry.

“But, Henry, your place is here,” admonished Lady J. “Do I need to remind you that the family is in mourning?”

“I know, Aunt Julia, but I
need
to be doing something. Besides, the governor wouldn’t want us moping around the house with long faces. He’d want us to celebrate life, not death.”

“It’s not your father’s decision. Or yours. It’s tradition. The servants will expect it.”

“My mind is made up,” said Henry. “We all mourn in our own way, Aunt. And if this fellow Edison is out to destroy Quarrywood, all the more reason for us to press on and show him that we won’t be intimidated.”

Seventeen

fter breakfast I slipped out of the dining room while Lady Julia was having another go at Henry. I didn’t want to give her the chance to hand me Spinoza’s latest and confine me to the drawing room. Emmeline came flying out after me. By the time Lady Julia noticed our departure — signalled by a booming “Where’s that Roderick?” — Emmeline and I were legging it upstairs to freedom.

Reeves was waiting for us in my room, and I swiftly brought him up to speed with events.

“What do you think, Reeves? Have you heard of this Edison fellow?”

“I have, sir. While it is true that the gentleman in question is of a litigious nature, I have not read anything that would suggest he would engage in homicidal conspiracies.”

“There’s always a first time, Reeves. And just because he hasn’t been caught doesn’t mean he’s not been out there bumping people off for years. What about these automata of his? Are they as good as T. Everett says?”

“I have never encountered one, sir, but I have heard they are highly regarded.”

“It’s true what Henry said about motive though, isn’t it?” said Emmeline. “Except for Edison and his wish to get rid of a competitor, there just isn’t one ... unless...”

I could tell by the way Emmie looked at me that she’d just thought of a corker. “Unless what?”

“Unless there’s something odd in Sir Robert’s will,” said Emmeline. “What if Henry doesn’t inherit?”

For a fleeting moment I was as excited as Emmeline. Wills were always hot stuff when one was looking for an unexpected motive. But would Sir Robert have disinherited Henry? I couldn’t see it. I’d never heard a single harsh word exchanged between the two.

“Have you heard of any rift between Henry and his father, Reeves?”

“No, sir. The only discourse I have heard upon the subject of Sir Henry’s relationship with his father have been ones concerning the surprising lack of discord between the two men. A circumstance ascribed to the general affability of both parties.”

I pondered on this for a while. I liked the idea of a contentious will, but I agreed with the opinion of the servants’ hall — Sir Robert wouldn’t willingly disinherit Henry.

So...

“What if someone forges a new will for Sir Robert and places it in his study to be discovered after the murder?” I said.

“A forgery would be uncovered, sir. Especially if the beneficiary was an unexpected one.”

“Ah, but what if the beneficiary was a particularly litigious individual with deep pockets,” I said, waggling an excited finger. “Am I not right in thinking that such a person could keep the estate’s assets frozen for years while the dispute is settled in the courts? I’m thinking of that book by Dickens — Bleak Something?”

“Bleak House, sir,” said Reeves, looking, I have to say, rather impressed with the young master. “It contains the disturbing case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce where the entire inheritance was frozen for decades before eventually being exhausted by legal costs. It was believed based on the real case of—”

“Quite, Reeves. We have the gist. So if this Edison chap hires a really good forger, he doesn’t need to do away with Henry. He can put a stop to Quarrywood with just Sir Robert’s murder, a forged will and a bevy of lawyers.”

“It’s diabolically brilliant!” said Emmeline. “If anyone challenges the will, Edison ties up the estate for years with law suits. And if they don’t, he takes control of Quarrywood himself!”

“There is the strong possibility, miss, that the police would charge him with forgery.”

“They can try, Reeves, but this chap sounds like a slippery cove,” I said. “He’ll have an army of lawyers to obfuscate matters.”

“Do you think Edison might be on his way here for the reading of the will?” asked Emmeline.

“It wouldn’t surprise me. We should keep an eye out. He should be easy to spot. According to T. Everett, he has very long arms.”

I was all for searching Sir Robert’s study immediately, but Reeves was against it.

“I fear the investigation is in danger of becoming side-tracked, sir. Last night, you decided that a search of the copse close to where Sir Robert’s gun was found should be our priority for the day. You may remember we deduced the strong possibility that the murderer lay there in wait for Sir Robert.”

I’d almost forgotten. “You think that trumps a search of the study?”

“Most certainly, sir. The longer we postpone a search of the murder scene, the more likely that evidence may be lost or compromised.”

~

Reeves braved the stairs first while Emmeline and I waited on the edge of the landing. Neither of us wanted to be nabbed by Lady J.

I heard a door open downstairs and flattened myself against the wall.

“Ah, it’s you,” said the unmistakable voice of the gimlet-eyed Aunt. “Treeves, isn’t it? Tell that accomplice of yours I want to see him this minute.”

“Mister Roderick has left for the studio, milady,” said Reeves. “I believe he intends to spend the day there searching for clues.”

“God help us,” said Lady J. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Miss Fossett?”

“I believe she went for a walk, milady.”

“A walk? Does no one understand the etiquette of mourning these days?”

I heard footsteps and a door slam. Then I poked a tentative nose over the banisters to make sure all was clear, and that it wasn’t Reeves who’d stormed off in a door-slamming huff.

All was clear, and it was but the work of a minute to beetle down the stairs and exit the Hall via the back door. Edmunds, who Reeves informed me was the boot boy, was standing guard on the lawn outside.

“You’ll need a gun, Mr Reeves,” he said. “Mr Berrymore told me not to let anyone outside if they didn’t have a gun. There’s one propped up against the wall there.”

Suitably armed, we hastened off to the murder scene by way of the Yew Walk.

The ground where we’d found the body was considerably cut up — which wasn’t surprising considering the number of people who’d trampled over it the previous night. The bowl was still there, but it was now empty.

“What’s that bowl doing there?” asked Emmeline.

“We found it under Sir Robert’s body,” I said. “It was full of milk.”

“Milk? What was a bowl of milk doing out here?”

I didn’t have an answer. Last night I’d hit upon the rather brainy idea that the milk was poisoned, but as soon as Morrow started talking about asphyxiation and Reeves started pointing at suspicious neck wounds, I pushed all thoughts of milk aside. After all, according to Inspector Murgatroyd, the human brain can only have so many thoughts, and you need to leave room in case a real corker comes along later.

“Mr Berrymore is of the opinion that one of the more superstitious servants left it out for the piskies, miss,” said Reeves.

“Fond of milk, are they? These piskies?” I asked.

“Piskies, or to give them their more common name — pixies — do not exist, sir.”

“Ah, same as ghosts.”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Well, someone’s finished off the milk, Reeves,” I said.

“It could be hedgehogs,” said Emmeline. “I haven’t seen any cats around the Hall...”

The same thought must have struck all three of us at the same time. There was one
very
large cat that we’d all seen on the premises.

Selden!

“Can you see any tracks belonging to Selden?” I asked, having a good peer.

We couldn’t. The only tracks that were visible in the compressed earth were shoe and boot prints.

“He may have changed back into human form before discovering the milk, sir.”

That was true, as was the possibility that the milk had been finished off by any number of the local wildlife. There could have been a wild milk party last night with every hedgehog, badger and deer for miles around swinging by for a snootful.

“Do you think someone might have left the milk out for Selden?” asked Emmeline.

“Who?” I replied.

“Dr Morrow seems quite fond of Selden,” said Emmeline.

“I think it unlikely that Dr Morrow would leave a bowl of milk here, miss, when it was his intention to lure Selden into his laboratory.”

“Wasn’t the bowl already here, though, before Dr Morrow decided to lure Selden into his room?” asked Emmeline.

“That is indeed correct, miss. I pronounced before fully analysing the situation.”

I had to pinch myself. Was this Reeves admitting to a mistake? Was this Reeves
making
a mistake?

“Are you up to pressure, Reeves?”

“I am operating within acceptable parameters, sir.”

“I hadn’t thought!” said Emmeline looking concerned. “How are you managing to top yourself up with armed guards on the doors all night?”

“With difficulty, miss. There is a convenient drainpipe passing adjacent to a window on the servants’ stairs. I used that last night to slip out unnoticed. I would, however, appreciate it, sir, if you could provide me with a suitable reason to search the outbuildings for half an hour this afternoon.”

“Consider it done, Reeves. I’ll stand guard outside.”

We continued our search, moving along the path to where Sir Robert’s gun had been found. The tracks of the cloven footed woman were still visible.

“The gun was about here, wasn’t it, Reeves?” I said, positioning myself where I thought Sir Robert would have stood.

“A yard closer to the mire gate, sir.”

I took a step forward. “Right ho, I’m Sir Robert standing here looking towards the gate. The murderer’s off to my right. Where?”

We all eyeballed the area to my right. The ground rose at a steady angle towards the back lawn some fifty feet higher and about a hundred yards away. The area was studded with trees of assorted varieties — some yew and some deciduous types just bursting into leaf. There were plenty of spots a chap could hide and get a clear sight of the track.

“I’d hide behind that tree there,” said Emmeline, pointing. “It’s big enough to hide behind and close enough to the track to get a good shot in.”

“How close would one have to be, Reeves? Are these blowpipes accurate over twenty yards or more?”

“It would depend upon the skill of the individual, sir. One would think a murderer intent upon success, and under the cover of darkness, would opt for a location as close as possible.”

Emmeline’s tree was about ten yards away, which sounded about right to me.

“Check the ground before you put your feet down,” I told Emmeline. “We’re looking for all kinds of prints, cigarette butts, visiting cards, you name it. He might even have stashed the blowpipe in a hole in a tree.”

Off we set, three hunched figures scouring the slope. I wasn’t sure what we’d find — cloven hoof prints, orang-utan spoor, an imprint of a heel only sold by a single shop in downtown New York — but I did expect us to find something. Instead, the area was remarkably clear of anything remotely incriminating. There was evidence of some disturbance in the layer of dead leaves that carpeted most of the area, but nothing one could identify with any degree of certainty. And there were no tracks leading from the path into the copse. If someone had hidden there, they’d come and gone from higher up the slope. And the only tracks we found in the copse anywhere nearby were the ones from our pursuit of Selden the previous night.

“There is the possibility, sir, that Sir Robert had his head turned when he was shot. If he was proceeding vigilantly along the Yew Walk, looking left and right, then a shot from the mire gate could have struck him on the right side of his neck.”