The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4)

by Chris Dolley

  The Unpleasantness

  at Baskerville Hall

  Chris Dolley

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, cannibals, mad scientists, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Copyright © 2016 by Chris Dolley

  Published by Book View Café

  www.bookviewcafe.com

  ISBN 13: 978-1-61138-554-0

  Cover art by Mark Hammermeister

  Cover design by Chris Dolley

  Steampunk Font © Illustrator Georgie - Fotolia.com

  One

  you believe in star cross’d lovers, Reeves?”

  “Sir?”

  “Romeo and Juliet, Reeves. I fear that’s what’s happening to me and Emmeline. Minus the asp.”

  “The asp was Cleopatra, sir.”

  “Really? I didn’t know the asp had a name. Family pet, was it?”

  The things one learns when one’s valet has a giant steam-powered brain. I puffed on a contemplative cheroot while Reeves mixed my mid-morning cocktail.

  “Am I to understand that your aunt Bertha remains opposed to the match, sir?”

  “If anything her opinion has hardened, Reeves. I have spent the last hour being lectured as to what is, and what is not, acceptable behaviour for prospective Mrs Reginald Worcesters. Chaining oneself to railings — even in the better neighbourhoods — features strongly in the unacceptable pile. Top billing, though, is reserved for having one’s photograph appear in the Tatler.”

  “Your aunt is opposed to that illustrated magazine, sir?”

  “Far from it, Reeves. Aunt Bertha is much taken with the Tatler. As are her circle. I should have said it’s not so much having one’s picture published as to the content of said picture. Being dragged off the Home Secretary by a burly policeman whilst attempting to give the former a ripe one across the mazard with a furled parasol is apparently the height of bad form.”

  “Miss Emmeline is a very spirited young lady, sir.”

  “That’s what I said. Give her the vote and all would be sweetness and light. Home Secretaries would be safe to walk the streets once more and the only casualties would be the purveyors of fine gauge chains for the progressive woman.”

  “Indeed, sir. Have you heard from Miss Emmeline since her departure?”

  “I have not, Reeves. Which worries me greatly.”

  It wasn’t only Aunt Bertha who’d taken against the match. The Dreadnought clan and, in particular, Emmeline’s mother, had decided that her daughter could do better. Two days ago they’d packed her off to Baskerville Hall for a fortnight in the country with the hope she’d bag the heir to the Baskerville-Smythe title.

  Not that she had gone willingly. Words had been exchanged. Food had been refused, and a small barricade — which she’d manned for a full twenty-four hours! — had been constructed around her bedroom door.

  It took Reeves — perched on a ladder propped up outside her bedroom window — to persuade the young firebrand that feigned acquiescence was the best way to thwart her family’s designs.

  Reeves has always been big on feigned acquiescence.

  But I had my doubts. Reeves may have thought the family would soon tire of trying to marry her off to every Lord Tom, Dick and Algernon, but what if they didn’t? And what if she fell for one of these suitors? Emmeline had promised to write to me every day, but it was two days now and I hadn’t received a single letter!

  “I am a worried man, Reeves. What if this Baskerville-Smythe chap has turned her head? It’s always happening in books. Modern girls rarely marry the chap they’re engaged to on page seven.”

  “Miss Emmeline is a stalwart and strong-minded young lady, sir.”

  “So was Lady Sybil in The Ravishing Sporran. But one sight of a man in a kilt and she was undone, Reeves. Putty in his roving Highland hands. Do they wear kilts in Devonshire?”

  “Not that I have heard, sir.”

  “Well that’s one stroke of luck.”

  I took a long sip of fortifying cocktail before rising from my armchair. This Baskerville-Smythe chap would probably rate an entry in Milady’s Form Guide to Young Gentlemen. What better way to discover what I was up against?

  I found the guide in the bookcase and leafed through it until I found the entry for Henry Baskerville-Smythe. It read:

  Dashing and well turned out colt. Excellent pedigree, good conformation. Unraced for two years as has been out of the country. Not expected to be riderless for long! Very fast on the gallops.

  “I don’t like the sound of this, Reeves. Have you seen it?”

  I handed him the form guide.

  “H’m,” said Reeves.

  “What do you mean ‘h’m,’ Reeves? Is that a good ‘h’m’ or a bad ‘h’m’?”

  “I think this is a positive development, sir.”

  “You do? How do you work that out?”

  “An entry such as this, sir, is likely to attract a large number of young ladies and their families. Miss Emmeline will have stiff competition.”

  “She will?”

  “I would expect there to be several young ladies staying at Baskerville Hall this very fortnight, sir, each with instructions to monopolise Mr Baskerville-Smythe’s attention.”

  “I don’t know, Reeves. I can’t bear another twelve days like this, imagining the worst. We Worcesters are men of action. Pack my bags, Reeves. We leave for Baskerville Hall within the hour.”

  Reeves gave me his disapproving face. “I would strongly counsel against such a move, sir. Miss Emmeline did say that the Baskerville-Smythes had been given firm instructions to turn you away should you happen to call.”

  I waved a dismissive hand at Reeves’ objections. “A mere formality, Reeves. We shall go in disguise.”

  Reeves coughed.

  “It’s all right, Reeves. I’m not contemplating a long beard and a parrot. A false name should suffice. None of the Baskerville-Smythes have ever met me. I shall once more become Nebuchadnezzar Blenkinsop. And you can be my valet Montmorency.”

  Reeves’ left eyebrow rose like a restrained, but clearly startled, salmon.

  “I think not, sir. It has been my observation that families are loathe to extend hospitality to strangers who arrive unannounced.”

  “Then I’ll introduce myself as a distant relative — one cannot turn away family. I should know.”

  Reeves was still unconvinced, but at least he’d wrestled back control of his eyebrows.

  “It would have to be a very distant relative, sir. Questions will be asked, and suspicions aroused should your knowledge of family matters fall short of expectations.”

  A good point. I took a long sip of my mid-morning bracer and waited for the restorative nectar to pep up the little grey cells.

  “How about an imaginary scion, Reeves? Most families have a third or fourth son sent out to the colonies to find their fortune. I’ll be the product of a secret marriage conducted in the Australian outback.”

  ~

  A quick perusal of Who’s Who uncovered a wealth of Baskerville-Smythes, but few of them were extant. Henry was an only son, and his father, Sir Robert — a widower for nigh on ten years — had outlived both his wife and three brothers. The only relative above ground at Baskerville Hall was a Lady Julia Noseley, Sir Robert’s
sister-in-law.

  “It says here that Henry’s in South Africa serving with his regiment,” I said.

  “That is last year’s edition, sir. Milady’s Form Guide to Young Gentlemen did mention that mister Henry had recently returned from abroad.”

  “I don’t like this, Reeves. He’ll have a uniform. They’re worse than kilts!”

  I read further, desperate to find a suitable distant relative of the right age. One of Sir Robert’s brothers, Cuthbert, had moved to South America. That was certainly distant enough. He’d married a local girl and had a son, Roderick. Cuthbert had then died of yellow fever and his wife had died of scarlet fever. Roderick had managed to survive both his parents — presumably because the local fevers had run out of colours — but was believed to have died a few years later when he was struck by the Buenos Aires to Mar del Plata express.

  “These Baskerville-Smythes are a very unlucky bunch, Reeves. It’s a wonder there are any of them left.”

  I was then struck with a notion. Roderick Baskerville-Smythe was only presumed dead. And he was born within a year or two of me. And he’d stayed in Argentina — no doubt with his mother’s family — after he’d been orphaned. It was unlikely he’d ever met anyone from his father’s side of the family.

  “I have it, Reeves! Send a telegram to Baskerville Hall at once. Roderick Baskerville-Smythe has returned from South America!”

  Reeves appeared not to share the young master’s enthusiasm.

  “I would not recommend such an action, sir. The appearance — as if from nowhere — of a long lost and, hitherto, believed deceased, relative, would, in my opinion, be viewed with great suspicion.”

  “Nonsense, Reeves. It would be an occasion of great joy. Fatted calves would be called for. There’s even a passage in the Bible. Joseph, wasn’t it? The one with the oofy coat? Returning home after seven years of high living abroad and being treated by his father to a fatted calf supper? And Joseph hadn’t even had a close shave with the Cairo to Antioch express!”

  “In the parable of the Prodigal Son, sir, to which I believe you allude, the young gentleman was only received favourably by his father. His older brother was somewhat vexed. You would be returning to an uncle, an aunt and a cousin. I fear they would side with the older brother upon this matter, and speculate upon the motive behind your reappearance.”

  “They might think I was there to touch ’em for a few quid?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Well, that’s easily solved. I’ll introduce myself as a man of means from the start. Diamonds, I think. No one frowns upon a rich relative turning up on the doorstep.”

  Two

  reluctant Reeves sent off the telegram announcing my imminent return to the family bosom, and off we set on the long train journey from London to deepest, darkest Devonshire. The journey was made even longer by Reeves’s disposition, which was as gloomy as the weather outside.

  That’s the problem with having a giant brain — it’s never satisfied. When it’s not picking holes in perfectly good plans, it’s wasting time searching for something better. I’ve always been a strong believer in the old proverb — too many thoughts spoil the child. Far better to come up with something that’ll get one’s foot over the threshold and then extemporise. After all, no plan survives first contact with a family member.

  We arrived in the late afternoon at a place called Grimdark — which Reeves assured me was the closest station to Baskerville Hall. All I can say is that if the Eskimos have forty words for snow, the denizens of Grimdark must have at least fifty for grim. I’d never seen such a place. Everything was damp, grey and dripping. The grey granite walls, the grey slate roofs, the leaden sky. My face and clothes were coated in a fine mist the moment I stepped off the train.

  I asked the porter if there was such a thing as a cab we could hire.

  “A cab you say? B’ain’t be no cabs round ’ere. Where you be ’eading?” said the porter in an accent that could only be described as below-decks pirate.

  “Baskerville Hall,” I said.

  The porter took his cap off to scratch his head. “Ain’t seen Tom all day. They always send Tom to pick up visitors. They know you’re comin’?”

  “I sent a telegram. Did you mention what time we’d be arriving, Reeves?”

  “I did, sir. Perhaps I should send another telegram to say that we have arrived?”

  The porter shook his head, sending a light spray of moisture flying in all directions. “There be no telegraph at the ’all, sirs. Line stops ’ere. We ’as a boy who takes the messages back ’an forth on ’is ’orse, but by the time ’e got a message to Tom, be close on dark. An’ Tom won’t cross the moor in the dark. No one round ’ere would. I’ll ’ave a word with me brother. ’E ’as a cart, an’ if you don’t mind a bit o’ dirt, e’ll get you, and your bags, to the ’all next to no time.”

  The porter’s brother, swaddled in a voluminous felt cape and perched upon an ancient cart drawn by an equally ancient horse, arrived five minutes later. We stowed our bags in the back and climbed aboard.

  “How far is it to the Hall?” I asked.

  “Five mile.”

  It was a long and uncomfortable five miles. The road turned into a rutted track as soon as it left the village. From there it descended down a steep valley to a rickety bridge over a small but boisterous river. Then it climbed up onto what our driver told us was the beginning of the high moor. Not that we could see much of it. There was a persistent mist and the occasional patch of low cloud.

  “That’s the ’all, up ahead on the ’igh ground to the left.” said our driver. “An’ that — on the right — is Great Grimdark Mire. Whatever you do, gents, stay well clear. Bottomless ’tis. Swallow an ’orse an’ cart like this in seconds. An’ the more you struggle, the faster t’will eat you up.”

  I half-expected the driver to cross himself.

  I couldn’t see where the mire began and the moor ended. They both looked the same to me. Everything to the right of the track was bleak and flat, barely a tree to be seen anywhere. An expanse of brown grasses, mosses and heather that stretched as far as the mist allowed the eye to see.

  “Is this all Grimdark Mire?” I asked.

  The driver shook his head. “Grimdark grows and shrinks with the rain. ’Tis three square mile in the winter. A path that’s safe in July will kill you in January.”

  “Lucky it’s nearly May, then,” I said, deciding it was time to lighten the mood.

  “Been a wet spring,” said the driver. “Followin’ an awful wet winter.”

  “Ah, well. Soon be summer,” I said.

  “Then there’s the piskies,” said the driver.

  “Piskies?”

  “Little folk. They live on the moor. Mischievous creatures, they be. Nothin’ they like better than to trick some poor unfortunate soul into strayin’ into the mire. You take heed, gents. If you see a light dancin’ on Grimdark, or hear distant singin’ on the wind ... you stay where you be. Don’t go off investigatin’. It’ll be the last thing you do.”

  Baskerville Hall was marginally less gloomy than our driver. It was one of those grey gothic piles with mock battlements and stone mullioned windows. The kind of place Edgar Allen Poe would have liked. But at least the grounds had trees and lawns — a little oasis of cultivation sitting on a raised plateau above a sea of wild and dismal browns — though it looked like someone had gone overboard on the topiary. One of the lawns was surrounded by a wild menagerie sculpted in yew.

  ~

  I trotted up the stone steps and pulled the doorbell. An age passed. I pulled at my cuffs, craned my neck mire-wards in search of piskies, and blew on my hands for warmth. Then the door opened to reveal one of the tallest and thinnest butlers I’d ever seen. Whether his hair was white or had attracted a fine dusting of snow from the altitude, one couldn’t tell. He looked down at me from a great height and spoke.

  “Yes?”

  “Roderick Baskerville-Smythe, estranged scion of this p
arish,” I replied. “I believe I’m expected.”

  “Oh,” said the venerable b. “You’ve come, have you?”

  I thought his tone a bit familiar for a butler, but then I’d never been to Devonshire before. Maybe this was the local custom.

  “It’s not him, is it, Berrymore?” said a female voice from the depths of the Hall.

  “I fear so, milady,” said the butler.

  “Well bring him in, and let’s have a look at him.” said the woman, who I deduced — there being no other candidates — was Lady Julia.

  The butler opened the door wider and stood aside. I removed my hat and strode into the hallway. Lady Julia and a chap of the same vintage, who had to be Sir Robert, were peering down at me from a first floor landing.

  “What ho, what ho, what ho,” I said. “I’m Roderick, your long lost relation — risen from the sidings, so to speak. Reports of my flattening greatly exaggerated, what? Takes more than the 4:10 from Buenos Aires to keep a good Baskerville-Smythe down.”

  Silence. I was reminded of the stunned reception I received two Christmases ago when I was given the wrong cue at the Gussage St. Crispin village show. Mrs Enderby-Slapp was on stage handwringing her way through Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy when on bounced R Worcester, clutching his racquet, and uttering a cheery ‘anyone for tennis?’

  “You don’t look like Cuthbert,” said Sir Robert, breaking the silence.

  “No, I’m Roderick, sir, not Cuthbert. Cuthbert was my father.”

  “Is he an idiot?” Lady Julia asked her brother-in-law. “Of course we know you’re not Cuthbert. Sir Robert was pointing out that you don’t look like him.”

  This was not going as well as I’d hoped. Lady Julia had a way of looking at a chap that made one feel like the lowest form of pond life.

  “That’s because I’m younger, Lady Julia. More hair, don’t you know...” I gripped the rim of my hat harder, and tried to stop babbling. “And ... and, besides, I take after my mother.”

  “She was an idiot too, was she?” asked Lady Julia.

  I could tell that Lady Julia was going to be somewhat of a problem. A winning smile and a breezy turn of phrase was not going to cut it.