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

by Chris Dolley

  “It would make Berrymore a suspect,” said Emmeline. “If he found out about Sir Robert and his wife...”

  I couldn’t see a liaison between Sir Robert and Mrs Berrymore. Neither could I see Berrymore shinning down a rope from the roof. But, wasn’t that all the more reason to suspect him?

  “I also discovered an interesting fact about Witheridge, sir. He has an unusual tattoo on his back.”

  “It doesn’t say “I am a criminal mastermind,’ does it?” I asked. One should never overlook the obvious.

  “No, sir. It would appear to be a circular shield with unusual lettering around the rim. Witheridge maintains the lettering to be Cyrillic — an unfortunate relic of his time working as a merchant seamen in the Black Sea. Babbacombe, however, believes the tattoo to be the mark of the piskies.”

  “We don’t believe in piskies, do we, Reeves?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What about this Sir Rillick, Reeves? Do we believe in him?”

  “Cyrillic is a form of alphabet, sir, popular in much of Eastern Europe, notably Russia. I have seen the tattoo in question and, although there are similarities, I do not believe the script to be Cyrillic.”

  “You saw this tattoo, Reeves?”

  “Yes, sir. I happened to be in the vicinity of the laundry when Witheridge met with an unfortunate accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “An accident involving a bucket of water perched upon the laundry door, sir. Fortunately, I happened to be carrying a clean shirt and footman’s jacket at the time and was able to assist him change out of his wet clothes.”

  “Very fortunate,” I said, eyeing Reeves keenly. “I take it no one saw you set up this Witheridge trap?”

  “Fortune favours the devious, sir.”

  “Why would Witheridge lie about a tattoo?” asked Emmeline. “Or do you think the other sailors played a trick on him?”

  “The tattoo could be part of one of those secret society initiations,” I suggested. “Witheridge always looks a little shifty to me. How long’s he been at the Hall, Reeves?”

  “Five months, sir. He was taken on when several of the house servants were relocated to the Quarrywood studio.”

  “That’s a bit too early to be working for Edison,” said Emmeline.

  I had to agree. Unless this Edison chap was a pretty swift worker. The kind of chap who kept an ear to the ground listening for word of potential rivals. After all, if he had a long arm, why not a long ear?

  “I also discovered, sir, that there is, indeed, a trunk in the attic containing old dresses. Ellie the tweenie discovered it when she was helping locate items to furnish the studio buildings during the Quarrywood expansion.”

  “Did she look inside?” asked Emmeline.

  “She tried some of the dresses on, miss,” said Reeves, exhibiting his disapproving face.

  “Does she remember a black one?” said Emmeline.

  “She does, miss, though she didn’t try that one on. Her preference was for the more colourful dresses.”

  “Did she tell anyone about these dresses?” I asked.

  “Most of the female servants, sir. And one of them must have informed Lady Julia as Ellie was summoned by her ladyship the next day and reprimanded.”

  I felt for the poor girl. A reprimand from Lady Julia would not have been pleasant.

  “So, Lady Julia knew about the trunk,” said Emmeline. “I bet she would have taken a look, too — just to see if Ellie had damaged any of the dresses. She’d have seen Theodosia’s dress. She couldn’t have missed it. So why didn’t she say anything when she saw the ghost wearing the dress?”

  “I don’t believe her ladyship saw the ghost, miss. If you recall she had already retired before the ghost’s entrance.”

  I could tell that Emmeline was disappointed. Only Ida ranked higher than Lady Julia in Emmeline’s list of preferred guilty parties.

  “Did you have time to see this trunk for yourself, Reeves?” I asked.

  “I did, sir. There was no black dress within.”

  Twenty-Six

  mmeline and I decided to leave before the rope was tied to the rock ready for tomorrow’s scene. I told Henry we’d be walking back to the Hall, and that Reeves was ready and waiting to take up his position chez shrubbery and observe all.

  Henry bade us farewell, and off we strolled, arm in arm, merrily spicing up Oscar Wilde plays for future Quarrywood productions. I was particularly fond of Lady Windermere’s Dagger, a tale about a good murderer, who suspects her husband is having an affair with a giant octopus.

  I expect some readers may be wondering: What is Worcester doing spicing up Oscar Wilde when he has a murder to solve? Murgatroyd of the Yard wouldn’t stand for it. He’d be out there chivvying suspects until someone confessed. But we consulting detectives are a different breed. Our little grey cells are a little less grey. We encourage our minds to wander, delighting in whimsy, for in whimsy we often find an unexpected door to truth.

  And failing that, a rather spiffy idea.

  It came to me as I was closing the mire gate. What if the homicidal tree — or arboreally disguised automaton — that Lottie saw rootling from the murder scene was still in the copse? Reeves and I hadn’t seen a tree cross the back lawn that night, and we must have been on the lawn around the time the fleeing conifer was making its escape.

  I stood in the spot where Sir Robert had been struck and looked up the slope. If I were a tree which route would I take to safety.

  “What are you doing?” asked Emmeline.

  “Thinking like a tree,” I said.

  “Do trees think?”

  “Deeply, I’d imagine. I’m not sure about yews, but I suspect the oak would be a particularly deep thinking tree. Beech too. They have a pensive look, don’t you think?”

  “I think the yew is a more sombre tree,” said Emmeline. “And pious — you always see them in churchyards. And not just on Sundays.”

  Could anyone doubt that Emmeline and I were kindred spirits?

  “Wait there,” I said and stepped briskly into the copse, taking up position about ten yards in. “So, here I am. I’ve just winged a poison dart at Sir Robert. Where do I go next?”

  “Home,” said Emmeline.

  I stopped thinking like a tree. Emmeline was right. Who, or whatever, fired the poisoned dart would most likely flee the scene in the direction of their home. And the tree had made for the Hall.

  Or were they forced to take that route by the arrival of Lottie?

  I looked up the slope again. “They’d have heard the search parties calling out for Sir Robert. So why go towards them.”

  “Perhaps that was what they were told to do,” said Emmeline. “Fire dart at Sir Robert from here. Go home.”

  “Then someone would have seen them crossing the back lawn. There were search parties everywhere.”

  “Which the murderer would have expected,” said Emmeline. “As soon as Sir Robert failed to turn up for dinner, there had to be a search.”

  Suddenly, it came to me.

  “The murderer wouldn’t say ‘Go home.’ They’d say ‘Hide.’ And what better place for a tree to hide than the middle of a copse!”

  We searched the copse, looking for all the best places a small tree could hide. After ten minutes we found it. A pile of yew cuttings — ranging from one to four feet long — behind a thicket of rhododendrons bordering the back lawn.

  “At least this means the murderer wasn’t a tree,” said Emmeline.

  “Unless it was an oak disguised as a yew.”

  ~

  Dinner was somewhat of a chore. I knew we had to give the impression that there was nothing out of the ordinary about to happen, but it’s not that easy when one feels like one of those coiled springs. I couldn’t wait for dinner to end and the real game to begin.

  And I couldn’t help glancing at Lady Julia’s aspidistra. It had a furtive look to it. The kind of aspidistra that would not be averse to dressing up as a yew an
d committing bloody murder.

  I took another long sip of wine. I couldn’t even talk to Emmeline. Lady Julia had made sure the two of us were again at opposite ends of the dinner table.

  I did note, however, that Stapleford had declined Henry’s invitation to the trough. I wondered if he was using the opportunity to give our rope a good fraying, and hoped he wasn’t doing the same to Reeves.

  “Henry!” boomed Lady Julia from the other end of the table. “Tell me this is not true. Are you and Roderick planning to risk your lives climbing down a cliff?”

  “It’s true, Aunt Julia,” said Henry. “It’ll make a capital scene.”

  “But ... so soon after your father’s death. Surely you must see how foolhardy this is?”

  “It’s not foolhardy, Aunt Julia. It’s spectacle,” said Henry. “That’s what’s going to make Quarrywood famous.”

  “Is this your doing?” said Lady Julia, glaring at me. “It has your hallmark.”

  “No,” I said. “Henry deserves all the credit for this one. I’m just happy to help out.”

  “H’m,” said Lady Julia.

  “I think you should listen to your aunt, Henry,” said Morrow. “The scene is an unnecessary risk. There is plenty of excitement in the picture as it stands.”

  “One can never have enough excitement,” said Henry.

  Emmeline left a minute or two after Lady Julia had led the ladies back into the dining room. She stifled several yawns, rubbed a leg muscle that definitely wasn’t a fetlock, and said: “I do apologise. I can barely keep awake. All that wrestling inside that heavy costume has caught up with me. I shall say goodnight before I fall down.”

  I remained a little longer, listening to Ida tell Henry that she wasn’t tired at all — even though she’d done far more work than Lily, and would no doubt wake up tomorrow covered in bruises from the unprofessional mauling she’d received.

  “Lily was playing the part of a Lizard Man,” said the real Lily. “They’re not supposed to be gentle.”

  “They’re not supposed to fall over either,” said Ida. “Or pull your hair. The other actors don’t. But then, they’re professionals.”

  “I think you’re being a bit hard on Lily, Ida,” said Henry. “She may lack your accomplishment, but she’s enthusiastic. And her Lizard Man, though dashed odd, was not one I’d like to tangle with. It had real menace.”

  “Talking of enthusiasm,” I said. “If I’m going to be on top form for tomorrow’s rope scene, I’ll need my eight hours. I shall bid you all a goodnight.”

  “Very sensible,” said Henry. “I don’t think I’ll stay much longer either. One needs a clear head to climb down a cliff that high.”

  I nipped back to my room, grabbed my coat and then sauntered down the back stairs. Sauntering is the gait of choice of the consulting detective when wishing to give the impression of the innocent abroad. A chap up to no good creeps or darts. He never saunters.

  I reached the back door — which was thankfully devoid of all gun-wielding footmen — and opened the door to the hallway a smidgen. All clear. So, out I nipped and executed a brisk saunter to the library door and slipped inside.

  I lurked behind a bookcase, waiting in the darkness for the others to arrive. Emmeline was first, followed five minutes later by Henry.

  I unlatched the window and carefully opened it, while Henry grabbed the gun he’d stashed behind a cabinet earlier that evening.

  We were ready. The cliff top beckoned. Owls hooted encouragement. And out we climbed into a still moonlit night.

  “Follow me,” I said. “The trick is to avoid open spaces.”

  We’d barely walked one hundred yards when I saw movement up ahead. Someone was coming up the Yew Walk!

  I flattened myself against the old stable block. Was it one of the feral automata coming for a top up?

  It was not. It was Berrymore!

  We watched him tack across the back lawn. When he reached the back door, he stopped and looked furtively left and right before opening the door a crack, peering within, and slipping inside.

  “What’s he up to?” whispered Emmeline.

  “I’ll soon find out,” said Henry, striding forward.

  I grabbed Henry by the arm. “No, not yet. We need to see Reeves first. If Berrymore’s frayed the rope, it’ll help if we have a witness. He’ll try to brazen it out otherwise — they always do — making up some story about checking the grounds for Selden before locking up for the night.”

  Henry reluctantly agreed. “Well, if you’re sure...”

  We crossed the back lawn, using the hedge for cover, following it around to the Yew Walk. From there we proceeded cautiously.

  “Get ready to dive into the copse if you spot anyone,” I whispered.

  As it happened we didn’t encounter anyone on the Yew Walk, but we did see a large bowl of milk.

  “That wasn’t there this afternoon,” said Emmeline. “And it’s full. There must be nearly a whole quart in there.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Henry. “There was a bowl of milk under my father’s body. What the devil does it mean?”

  “It’s possible someone at the Hall is feeding Selden,” I said.

  “What?” said Henry. “Do you think it’s Morrow?”

  “Or Berrymore,” I said. “We did just see him come from the Yew Walk.”

  “But why?” said Henry.

  I shrugged.

  “It might be drugged,” said Emmeline. “Berrymore might be trying to catch Selden.”

  “Then why not tell me?” said Henry. “I’d have helped. It sounds a capital idea. No reason to creep about at the dead of night.”

  Of course there was also the possibility that someone was trying to lure Selden to the Hall for some other reason — like becoming the scapegoat for the Baskerville-Smythe murders.

  We continued our trek. A friendly crescent moon shone brightly from high in the southern sky allowing us to see for miles. Even the mire appeared clear of fog. One could make out the silhouette of the high moor in the distance.

  And we were alone. I didn’t spot one skulking figure or hastily dampened lamp on the entire journey to the cliff top.

  “Reeves? Are you here?” I said in a loudish whisper.

  “I am, sir,” said Reeves, rising from behind a bush.

  “Have you seen anything?”

  “Not yet, sir. I believe Sergeant Stock and four of his warders may be at the studio. They arrived earlier and I have not seen them leave.”

  “What are they doing at the studio?” asked Henry.

  “I do not know, sir. I observed them call at the studio’s main house and disappear within, but they were too far away for me to hear what was said on the doorstep when the footman admitted them.”

  “Has Berrymore been here?” asked Emmeline.

  “Not that I have observed, miss.”

  “And how’s the rope, Reeves? Everything oojah-cum-spiff and unsullied?”

  “The rope has not been touched, sir.

  I had a look nonetheless. Gave it a good tug and declared it as fine a specimen of the ropemaking arts as I’d ever seen.

  Reeves coughed. “If I may suggest, sir, I think it would be prudent if we concealed ourselves.”

  I found the spot I’d earmarked during our morning reconnoitre. There was room to sit down, a stout rocky face to lean back on, and there were several of those leggy gorse bushes that can hide a chap from view while, at the same time, providing plenty of gaps to look through.

  Emmeline’s spot was on the other side of the rock. I had a good view towards the Hall and the mire, and Emmeline looked out on High Dudgeon Farm and the open moor to the north.

  After thirty minutes the Worcester enthusiasm began to wane somewhat. The night was colder than I’d expected. I hadn’t brought gloves. My back had begun to ache. And nothing was moving on the moor.

  Time dragged. The moon ambled across the sky, and dew began to form on my clothes. Then, at around two o’clock, Em
meline spoke.

  “Did you see that?” she whispered from her side of the rock.

  “See what?” I whispered back.

  “A light from High Dudgeon Farm.”

  I leaned forward as far as I could and peered towards Stapleford’s cottage. I could just about see the outline of the house and buildings, but I couldn’t see any light.

  “It’s gone now, but I definitely saw it,” said Emmeline. “It shone for a good two seconds.”

  I watched the farm a little longer, but saw nothing. A little later I thought I saw movement on the mire. It was difficult to make out with any certainty — the mire was over a mile away — and I may have imagined it.

  I didn’t imagine the figure on the track twenty minutes later though. They were walking along the track to the quarry. Too far away to recognise but, from the outline, it wasn’t a tree or wearing a long black dress.

  I watched transfixed, right up to the moment the gun went off.

  Twenty-Seven

  gunshot was accompanied by a series of shouts from the quarry. Over there! Stop him! Get him, boys!

  The figure on the track stopped dead, then hurried to a rock and crouched down behind it.

  The cries from the quarry intensified. He’s making a run for it! Get the horses! Stop or I’ll shoot!

  Emmeline crawled around the rock to join me. “What’s going on? Do you think we should go and look?” she whispered.

  I was torn. Had Sergeant Stock and his warders spotted another suspect? They couldn’t have seen the figure on the track. But had the murderer outsmarted us? Let us think he’d arrive at the cliff top via the track when, all the time, he’d been shinning up the rope from the quarry?

  ”Stay here, Emmie,” I whispered. “Keep an eye on the chap on the track. I’ll see what’s going on at the quarry.”

  I crawled from my hiding place, until I put my left hand on a particularly sharp piece of gorse and emitted a stifled bleat. After which, I gave up crawling and tried a touch of creeping, along with a modicum of tripping and light cursing.

  Eventually I made it to the clearing by the rope where I saw Henry, crouching by the rock the rope was tied to.

  “It’s Sergeant Stock and the warders,” whispered Henry. “They’re chasing someone.”