Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) by Chris Dolley Page B

three eyes. And is orange.”
    I tutted. Fourteen years locked in a cupboard had given Reeves a very narrow view of what is and what is not art. Our opinions had clashed several times.
    “It’s modern art, Reeves. And who is to say the model was not orange ... or indeed three-eyed. One should never jump to conclusions these days. As the bard said to Lord Nelson, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
    Reeves put on his disapproving face — and made a show of shielding his eyes from the offending statue by placing his right hand hard against his brow — whilst Mr S-F presented his story.
    And what a story it was.
    “Have you heard of Prometheans, Mr Worcester? Corpses assembled from many parts and brought back to life by the introduction of electrical energy?”
    “I should say so. I’ve even conversed with a couple. Thinking about it, I was almost related to one once — until she ran off with next door’s pig.”
    “Pig?”
    “A Promethean pig, assembled from a collection of Europe’s finest porkers. And a Scotsman. Although I’m not quite sure how the Scotsman got into the mix. Do you recall, Reeves?”
    “No, sir. I fear that will remain one of life’s little mysteries.”
    “Oh.” Mr Scrottleton-Ffoukes appeared somewhat non-plussed, an effect I often have on people. I believe Sherlock Holmes generates a similar effect. Emmeline says it’s because our brains are differently wired. Our thoughts skip and gambol along paths that the general populace doesn’t even know exist.
    “Well,” he continued. “I have been financing a study into Necrometheans — that is the reanimation of long dead corpses. Very long dead corpses.”
    “How long?”
    “300 years.”
    I whistled. “Three hundred years? Isn’t there a problem with um ... you know ... the condition of the specimen?”
    “That was one of the first things Mr Snuggles worked on.”
    “Snuggles?”
    “He’s the scientist fellow I’ve been financing. A veritable genius. Anyway, to cut a long story short, yesterday we re-animated an ancient relative of mine and this morning he’s gone. We can’t find him anywhere.”
    “Are you sure he’s gone and not just ... dissolved into a pile of dust? If someone left a window open last night his ashes may have scattered.”
    “I assure you, Mr Worcester, my relative was very much alive when he left the room for he broke the lock on the laboratory door! I fear he has a strong dislike of confined spaces.”
    “Three hundred years in a coffin is wont to do that to a person.”
    Mr Scrottleton-Ffoukes began to look a little sheepish. “I fear it is more than that,” he said. “He was ... somewhat ill-used before his death. And I think he may be seeking revenge.”
    “Upon whom? Mr Snuggles hasn’t re-animated any other 300 year-old corpses, has he? The Jacobean Scrottleton-Ffoukes weren’t involved in a blood feud with the Capulet-Smythes, were they?”
    “I fear it is not so much a person that he intends to harm, as an institution.”
    Institution? The Worcester brain boggled.
    “Perhaps if you gave us the name of your relative, sir?” asked Reeves.
    Mr Scrottleton-Ffoukes looked down at his brogues and shuffled. “Er ... Guy Fawkes.”
    You could have struck me across the mazzard with a wet halibut.
    “ The Guy Fawkes?” I asked. “The Gunpowder Plot Guy Fawkes?”
    “Yes, though I am sure he is innocent. I have read a great deal upon the subject and am quite convinced the plot was orchestrated by Robert Cecil. He wanted to ingratiate himself with King James and convince the King of the Catholic menace.”
    “Really?” I said. History had never been one of my strong subjects. I knew King James had written the Bible, and what schoolboy hadn’t heard of the Gunpowder Plot? Bonfire Night was one of the highlights of the school year — all those fireworks and the weeks beforehand spent constructing your Guy to toss onto the