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

looking for, I’ll have to jolly well ask your superintendent. Or maybe the commissioner himself. When am I dining with him, Reeves?”
    “Next week, sir.”
    The sergeant may have not have been entirely convinced of my chumminess with the metropolitan police commissioner, but I could see the doubt in his eyes. Could he afford to risk it?
    He could not.
    “An apology may be in order, sir,” he said grudgingly. “We’d been told a murder had been committed on these premises.”
    “A murder?” I pride myself on my ability to feign shock, even Henry Irving would have been impressed at this performance.
    “Yes, sir. We were told that the body was in this room.”
    “Told? Told by whom?”
    “He didn’t give his name, sir. He said he feared you’d find out, and kill him too.”
    “Really, officer. Do I look like a murderer?” I gave him my most innocent smile.
    “I really couldn’t say, sir.”
    Reeves coughed. “May I enquire, sergeant, as to what this person looked like? He may be known to us — some of Mr Worcester’s acquaintances have a very odd taste in practical jokes.”
    “I never actually saw him. He reported the crime by telephone.”
    “An anonymous caller?” I said. “And you believed him?”
    “He was very convincing, sir. He sounded terrified and ... this address is on file.”
    “It is?”
    “Yes, sir. It’s been given as the London address of a notorious helmet stealer by the name of Nebuchadnezzar Blenkinsop.”
    “Never heard of him,” I said, clutching hold of the time machine for support. Nebuchadnezzar Blenkinsop was the name I always gave to the magistrates when I was up before them! Had I been too squiffy one time and given my real address?
    “How old would you say this anonymous caller was, sergeant?” asked Reeves.
    “Difficult to say. Like I said, he was in fear of his life. Not an old gent. Not a young one neither.”
    “Did he have an accent at all? A local man? A foreigner?” said Reeves.
    “Weren’t no foreigner. Sounded a bit like Mr Worcester. Posh, that is.”
    ~
    The constabulary took their truncheons and left, leaving Reeves and me to ponder over what we’d learned.
    The first thing I’d learned was that gin was essential to time travel. Without it one couldn’t keep track of the changing timelines. So, I rescued the cocktail that Reeves had abandoned earlier on the drinks cabinet and downed it in one.
    “Do we have any more gin, Reeves?”
    “I keep an extra bottle for emergencies, sir.”
    “Well, keep them coming, Reeves. This is an emergency. And make sure you’re up to pressure. Who knows what might happen next.”
    I settled back in my favourite armchair, freshly shaken cocktail in hand, and pored over the facts.
    “Do we assume this anonymous caller is the chap who shot our dead body?” I asked.
    “It is a strong possibility, sir. I think we can say that this caller wanted to implicate you in the murder, and most likely was responsible for depositing the deceased in your sitting room. But whether they killed the gentleman, or procured an already deceased gentleman for the purposes of incriminating you, I cannot tell.”
    “But why me, Reeves?”
    “That is perplexing, sir.”
    “In books, this sort of thing happens when the detective is close to solving the crime. The murderer decides to get rid of the detective by framing him. But we’re not on a case, are we, Reeves?”
    “There is the case of stolen time machine, sir. Technically, we haven’t returned it yet.”
    “You think HG Wells has cut up rough? Give me back my time machine or I’ll fill your sitting room with dead bodies?”
    “No, sir, but it is possible that we didn’t restore the timeline exactly as it was before. We may have another case in this timeline.”
    I put my drink down. Reeves had done it again! We must have a new case, and we must be doing pretty well if we’d flushed the murderer out.
    We searched the flat. If we were on a case, we must have written