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

Charlotte? HG Wells? The Traveller? Someone else? And why?
    “I suggest we move the deceased to the bathroom, sir. And stow him there while we return to the present.”
    I was wondering if we should leave a note — Sorry about the guest in the bathroom. Will return anon to sort out, R — when a thought struck me .
    “Reeves, what if it was us who dumped the body?”
    “Sir?”
    “Well, here we are dumping a dead body in the future. What if our future selves had had a similar thought? They’d come home, found a dead body, panicked, and used the time machine to dump the body in the past?”
    “I rather hope, sir, we would not have the time machine in the future, and so the circumstance would not arise.”
    “Hmm, you may be right, Reeves. I think I would have a left a note too. One can’t dump deceased guests on people without some sort of explanation. It’s not British.”
    I jotted an explanatory note for my future self, and was about to leave it on the drinks cabinet, when I noticed there was a cocktail glass on the cabinet. A full cocktail glass.
    “This is odd, Reeves?” Cocktails do not get abandoned in the Worcester household without good reason. Had my future self been forced to flee at short notice?
    Reeves appeared at my shoulder. “Most odd, sir. I believe that may be the drink I placed there last week when I first encountered the deceased.”
    “It’s been there a week? Where were we all that time? Didn’t we get back?”
    “I think we should leave at once, sir.”
    We beetled back to the time machine and jumped aboard. Reeves set the dials, adjusted the levers and hit the button that sent us flying back to the past. I steadied myself. My plan was to fly from the machine the moment the room re-crystallised, and attempt to open the front door before it was broken down by the stout shoulders of the law.
    We materialised. There was a thud from the door.
    “Wait!” I shouted, leaping from the vehicle so fast I nearly overbalanced. “I’m coming!” The front door was thankfully still in place, but I could hear muffled conversation on the other side. “No need to break the door down. I’m coming!”
    I unlocked the door and pulled it open. Three burly policemen — one sergeant and two constables — stood on the threshold with truncheons at the ready.
    “Reginald Worcester?” said the sergeant, using the same tone that magistrates use when about to pass sentence.
    “I am he, officer.” I was thinking of something cutting to say viz. breaking down law-abiding citizen’s doors but, before I could come up with anything withering, I was asked to step aside.
    “I’m not sure if I shall step aside, officer.”
    “Step aside, sir, or I’ll arrest you.”
    “On what grounds?”
    “For bleeding all over my truncheon.”
    I stepped aside.
    The three custodians of the law rushed past me.
    “Who are you?” the sergeant asked Reeves while the constables searched the sitting room.
    “I am Reeves, sergeant, Mr Worcester’s valet.”
    “What’s that?” said the sergeant, poking a truncheon at the time machine.
    “It’s a piece of modern art,” said Reeves.
    The sergeant walked around it, examining it thoroughly, looking for secret compartments no doubt, and finding none.
    “It’s not ’ere, sarge,” said the constable who had been searching the half of the room that included the sofa.
    “What’s not here?” I asked. “Are you looking for something?”
    “Search the other rooms,” said the sergeant. “You may think you’re very clever, sir. But we know it’s ’ere, and we will find it.”
    “Find what?”
    The sergeant ignored me and joined the search himself. Opening cupboards and pulling out drawers. He even opened the windows and leaned outside to check the pavement in case we’d thrown the body out there.
    One by one the constables returned to report the fruitlessness of their searches.
    “Well, officer,” I said. “Seeing as you won’t tell me what your men have been