The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) by Chris Dolley Page B

empty rooms in this wing.”
    “Not yet, Reeves. That’s exactly what they’re hoping we’ll do.”
    “Sir?”
    “I see all, Reeves. We are, as I suspected earlier, dealing with a criminal mastermind.”
    “Oh,” said one of Reeves’ eyebrows. Not literally, of course, but figuratively. It rose a whole eighth of an inch.
    “Indeed,” I said. “It’s a clever feint. They make us think that the plan is to have the incriminating evidence discovered in my possession. But it isn’t.”
    “It isn’t, sir?”
    “No, Reeves. I could say ‘I’ve never seen this severed head before in my life, officer.’ People might not believe me — Lady Julia for one — but no one could prove otherwise. But if we move the evidence, especially if we do so in haste, fingerprints will be left, Reeves. And fingerprints will stand up in court these days.”
    “I shall wear gloves, sir.”
    “Of course it could be a double bluff. Or even a triple one. You can never tell with criminal masterminds. What if they were expecting us to relocate the evidence, and then panic when we realised about the fingerprints, and rush back and wipe the evidence clean?”
    Reeves was unusually silent.
    “You see what I’m getting at, Reeves.”
    “No, sir.”
    “Fiendishness, Reeves. Criminal masterminds like nothing better than to manipulate others into doing their dirty work for them. And they’re risk takers. They may well have left their own fingerprints on the head knowing that we’d panic, and wipe the head clean for them. I expect they’re sitting in their room now having a good chuckle at how close we were to determining their identity.”
    “I believe one can overthink a problem, sir. I hesitate to mention Ockham’s razor, but feel it appropriate in this situation to—”
    “Reeves,” I held up my hand to stop him. “Does this razor to which you refer belong to William of Ockham perchance?”
    “It’s a metaphorical razor, sir, for shaving away unnecessary assumptions.”
    “Bearded chap, was he? This William of Ockham.”
    “I believe he is normally portrayed as clean-shaven, sir.”
    “Must have had two razors then. Or did the metaphorical one shave the other away?”
    “I really cannot say, sir,” said Reeves, airing his disapproving face.
    I drew myself up to my full seated height.
    “We shall examine the evidence for fingerprints, Reeves. Then we shall move said evidence to a place of safety.”
    Even a Reeves in the midst of low dudgeon could see the merit in that.
    Reeves selected a white silk evening glove for the task ahead, and I inserted the Worcester digits therein. I then placed each of the three objects upon the corner of the dressing table where the light from the window was at its brightest.
    I gave them all a good eyeball, from several angles, using my silver-mounted magnifying glass. Reeves then did the same.
    “Can you see anything, Reeves? I can’t.”
    “The tin and paintbrush handle are remarkably unblemished, sir. I would say that both have been deliberately wiped clean.”
    “And the head?”
    “That is more difficult to say, sir. There is a smudge — which could be a fingerprint — in the large depression to the crown of the head. It is, regrettably, too faint to make an accurate sketch.”
    “Ha,” I said. “Not too faint for Serge, Le Patissier .”
    “Sir?”
    “You haven’t read The Poisoned Brioche ? The Eccles Cake of Death ? The Girl in The Baklava ?”
    “No, sir. I have not had those pleasures.”
    “Amend that at your earliest convenience, Reeves. For, if you had, you’d know that there are ways to enhance fingerprints. Flour, for one. You dust it lightly over the print and — voila — things are brought up a treat. Serge always carries a bag of self-raising in his pocket just in case. He’s a crime-fighting patisserie chef, you know?”
    “I did not, sir.”
    “You would be staggered, Reeves, staggered at the number of people who have been murdered in his patisserie