Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) by Chris Dolley Read Free Book Online

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