The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) by Chris Dolley Page A
Authors: Chris Dolley
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to move on.
“Next, we have the mystery of the modus operandi , Reeves.”
“Sir?”
“Everything we’ve heard about Selden suggests a chap who thinks like a cat, but have you ever known a cat wield an axe?
“No, sir.”
“Or stab a mouse in the turbines?”
“Indeed not, sir.”
“Then why would Selden?”
“The evidence would suggest to me, sir, that Selden was not responsible for the attack on Pasco.”
“You forget the dead mouse theory, Reeves.”
“No, sir, I assure you that that particular theory is etched within memory.”
I gave Reeves a hard stare. “I’m not saying it has to be a dead mouse, Reeves. It could be anything. But the only reason for Selden to change his modus operandi would be if he saw Pasco not as food to be played with, but as a container to be opened.”
“That is one interpretation, sir, but it is predicated on the considerable coincidence of both Pasco and Dr Morrow residing in Clerkenwell and Baskerville Hall at the requisite times. And we have it from Trelawny, the gardener, that Pasco was purchased last year. I cannot envisage Sir Robert buying a second-hand under gardener, which would mean that Pasco would not have been built when Selden was last in Clerkenwell.”
I couldn’t imagine Sir Robert buying a second-hand under gardener either. Oh well, that’s the nature of sleuthing — sometimes one’s best theory crashes and burns. One draws a line through it and moves on.
“Something adventurous in the sock line tonight, I think, Reeves. Have you laid out my evening dress?”
“No, sir. I will attend to it now.”
Reeves shimmered off to the wardrobe while I drained my glass of the early evening fortifier.
“What is it, Reeves?” I asked. The chap appeared transfixed by something within the wardrobe. “You’re not objecting to that red silk handkerchief again, are you? I have told you, even the Prince of Wales wears one in his waistcoat these days.”
“No, sir. There appears to be a head in the wardrobe.”
Twelve
what in the wardrobe?”
“A head, sir. It appears to be glowing.”
I don’t know about you, but Reginald Worcester does not like the idea of glowing heads appearing in wardrobes. I hastened over at once.
“I suspect it may belong to Pasco, sir.”
It was difficult to tell. The top of the head had received a considerable bash. And the face was covered in an odd greenish paint. But how many missing heads could there be?
“The rest of him’s not in there, is it?” I asked.
We searched the wardrobe, then the rest of the room. I even looked under the bed and felt a little way up the chimney. We didn’t find any more of Pasco, but we did find a tin of RadioGlo paint and a paint-stained brush concealed beneath my underlinen in a dressing table drawer.
“None of this was present this morning, sir.”
I read the label on the RadioGlo tin.
“What’s radioluminescent paint, Reeves? Is that another word for ‘odd shade of green?’”
“It’s a paint that glows in the dark, sir. I believe it to be a mixture of radium, copper and zinc sulphide. Pasco, or an accomplice, must have painted Pasco’s face to give it a spectral glow.”
One did not have to be a consulting detective to work out what for.
“So, Pasco was last night’s ghost.”
“So it would appear, sir.”
“You don’t sound convinced, Reeves.”
“One doubts the reliability of any evidence that has been planted, sir.”
“Lock the door, Reeves,” I said. “Whoever stowed this here is going to want this room searched pretty dashed soon. We need time to think.”
And a generous refill of the thought restorative.
~
I had that warm feeling in the head that one gets when one’s little grey cells are whizzing around with alcohol-fuelled vigour. And when Reginald Worcester’s l g c’s start whizzing there’s nothing they can’t accomplish.
“Might I suggest, sir, that we move the incriminating evidence to an alternative location? There are several
“Next, we have the mystery of the modus operandi , Reeves.”
“Sir?”
“Everything we’ve heard about Selden suggests a chap who thinks like a cat, but have you ever known a cat wield an axe?
“No, sir.”
“Or stab a mouse in the turbines?”
“Indeed not, sir.”
“Then why would Selden?”
“The evidence would suggest to me, sir, that Selden was not responsible for the attack on Pasco.”
“You forget the dead mouse theory, Reeves.”
“No, sir, I assure you that that particular theory is etched within memory.”
I gave Reeves a hard stare. “I’m not saying it has to be a dead mouse, Reeves. It could be anything. But the only reason for Selden to change his modus operandi would be if he saw Pasco not as food to be played with, but as a container to be opened.”
“That is one interpretation, sir, but it is predicated on the considerable coincidence of both Pasco and Dr Morrow residing in Clerkenwell and Baskerville Hall at the requisite times. And we have it from Trelawny, the gardener, that Pasco was purchased last year. I cannot envisage Sir Robert buying a second-hand under gardener, which would mean that Pasco would not have been built when Selden was last in Clerkenwell.”
I couldn’t imagine Sir Robert buying a second-hand under gardener either. Oh well, that’s the nature of sleuthing — sometimes one’s best theory crashes and burns. One draws a line through it and moves on.
“Something adventurous in the sock line tonight, I think, Reeves. Have you laid out my evening dress?”
“No, sir. I will attend to it now.”
Reeves shimmered off to the wardrobe while I drained my glass of the early evening fortifier.
“What is it, Reeves?” I asked. The chap appeared transfixed by something within the wardrobe. “You’re not objecting to that red silk handkerchief again, are you? I have told you, even the Prince of Wales wears one in his waistcoat these days.”
“No, sir. There appears to be a head in the wardrobe.”
Twelve
what in the wardrobe?”
“A head, sir. It appears to be glowing.”
I don’t know about you, but Reginald Worcester does not like the idea of glowing heads appearing in wardrobes. I hastened over at once.
“I suspect it may belong to Pasco, sir.”
It was difficult to tell. The top of the head had received a considerable bash. And the face was covered in an odd greenish paint. But how many missing heads could there be?
“The rest of him’s not in there, is it?” I asked.
We searched the wardrobe, then the rest of the room. I even looked under the bed and felt a little way up the chimney. We didn’t find any more of Pasco, but we did find a tin of RadioGlo paint and a paint-stained brush concealed beneath my underlinen in a dressing table drawer.
“None of this was present this morning, sir.”
I read the label on the RadioGlo tin.
“What’s radioluminescent paint, Reeves? Is that another word for ‘odd shade of green?’”
“It’s a paint that glows in the dark, sir. I believe it to be a mixture of radium, copper and zinc sulphide. Pasco, or an accomplice, must have painted Pasco’s face to give it a spectral glow.”
One did not have to be a consulting detective to work out what for.
“So, Pasco was last night’s ghost.”
“So it would appear, sir.”
“You don’t sound convinced, Reeves.”
“One doubts the reliability of any evidence that has been planted, sir.”
“Lock the door, Reeves,” I said. “Whoever stowed this here is going to want this room searched pretty dashed soon. We need time to think.”
And a generous refill of the thought restorative.
~
I had that warm feeling in the head that one gets when one’s little grey cells are whizzing around with alcohol-fuelled vigour. And when Reginald Worcester’s l g c’s start whizzing there’s nothing they can’t accomplish.
“Might I suggest, sir, that we move the incriminating evidence to an alternative location? There are several
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