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

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