The Shadow Conspiracy II

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “Dashed if I can see anything about the girl that would draw the ire of an aunt. She doesn’t smile a lot, but then, she’s engaged to Herbert. I wouldn’t smile if I was engaged to him.”

  “Is her family impecunious, sir?”

  “Not that I could gather. Have you heard of the Smiths of Bristol, Reeves? I haven’t.”

  “The family is unfamiliar to me, sir, though...I have been removed from society for fourteen years.”

  “Quite. You know, Reeves, I think the answer to this puzzle may well lie in that ancient seaport. There has to be some black sheep rootling about in the family fold. Something that Bertha knows and we don’t. What about your Sherlocking, Reeves? Uncover any sheep?”

  “Possibly, sir. One of the chambermaids mentioned something about a tattoo.”

  “A tattoo?”

  “That was what the girl said. A most unusual tattoo, sir.”

  “The mind boggles, Reeves. Are we talking parrots or declarations of undying love for one’s mother?”

  “Neither, sir. The tattoo in question is composed of three words. ‘Made in Belgium.’”

  “What?” I had to have misheard.

  “Made in Belgium, sir. It’s a small country located between France and Holland.”

  “I know where Belgium is, Reeves. A bit rummy this though, don’t you think? She doesn’t sound Belgian. And Smith is not a noted Belgian surname. Is it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Could it have been a misprint? She says Bristol; the tattooist chappie hears Belgium?”

  “I think not, sir. One thought that did present itself — that the young lady may be a mechanical construct like myself — proved unfounded. Several of the serving staff report occasions when she was seen dining at table.”

  “Not slipping in the odd lump of coal, I suppose?”

  “No, sir. The young lady was reported to have a healthy and unremarkable appetite. May I suggest a visit to her room? I believe Miss Smith to be partaking of a game of tennis upon the lawn this hour. A search of her belongings may prove enlightening.”

  The mantle of bedroom sleuth was passed to me, Reeves having cried off with a pressing engagement in the butler’s pantry. I affected a nonchalant non-sleuthing air as I followed Reeves’s directions to the room in question. I sauntered, I whistled a refrain or two from G & S, I smiled beatifically. The casual observer, had there been one, would have looked upon Reginald and said, “there walks a chap who wouldn’t go snooping about in another chap’s cupboards.”

  I arrived at Miss Smith’s door the very model of a modern sleuthing general. So far so good. I looked up corridor. I looked down corridor. Not a sausage. I opened the door, and, closing it quietly behind me, slipped inside.

  It took longer to search the room than I expected — a person of gentle breeding cannot root about in another person’s garment drawer willy-nilly. Particularly if the person in question is a member of the opposite, and reputedly deadlier, sex. Proprieties have to be observed, care taken, eyes occasionally averted. And I have never mastered the art of folding.

  Plus there was the matter of what to look for. Clues do not come clearly labelled. I could have been looking for ciphers constructed of dancing men or evidence that the room had been recently frequented by a seafaring orang-utan.

  I am not sure how long my slow and fruitless search took but outside the tempus was positively fugiting. Luckily I heard the footsteps before the door opened and was able to rush to a hiding place behind a small screen by the window.

  The door opened.

  “I’ll meet you on the terrace,” said the unmistakable voice of Josephine Smith.

  “Right ho,” came a distant reply, presumably from Herbert.

  I listened as the door closed and prayed for Miss Smith’s visit to be a fleeting one. But God, as on the seventh day, must have had his feet up, for I could hear the steady pop of buttons and ... was that the creak of whalebone?

  Miss Smith was divesting herself of her clothing! A notion confirmed when one garment was so bold as to fly across the room and drape itself over the top of the very screen I was hiding behind!

  I fixed my eyes firmly to the carpet. This never happened to Sherlock Holmes or, if it did, Doctor Watson wisely left those passages out. Be a good chap, Watson, and scratch that scene with me hiding under Irene Adler’s bed.

  As I considered the Great Detective and wondered what he might have done had he found himself in my situation, I was struck with a notion. What if the maid had been mistaken about the tattoo? What if it had said ‘Bristol’ or ‘Belljum’ — for was it not possible that the tattoo could be an anagram or a cipher? You can tell that the old grey cells were burning white-hot at this juncture.

  I lowered myself onto all fours and sneaked a peek around the side of the screen.

  The tattoo was not the only thing that was visible.

  There were two screams. One, the louder, from Miss Smith, and the second, somewhat strangled, from Reginald Wooster. Soon there was a third for, I’m sure you have noticed, that whenever there’s a commotion in a large stately home, doors fly open and previously empty corridors are instantly teeming with the inquisitive.

  My cousin Herbert was more than inquisitive. Espying his beloved wrapped loosely in a towel, he squeezed through the throng in the doorway and placed a cardigan over her shoulders.

  Words, always problematical for Herbert, were vaporised before they could leave his mouth. He was incandescent. “R-R-Reggie! Are you mad! What are you doing down there!”

  All reasonable questions. I crouched there, still on all fours, attempting an affable smile while feeling like a guilty Pomeranian discovered next to the body of a dead postman.

  Herbert advanced upon me, teeth and fists clenched. I jumped up and said the first thing that came into my head. “I thought this was Georgie’s room!”

  Firm hands grabbed my lapels and hoisted me towards the window.

  “No!” said Josephine. “Herbert, don’t throw your cousin out the window.”

  “Why not?” said Herbert. “It would do him good.”

  “No! I thought this was Georgie’s room! I really did. Awfully sorry, Miss Smith.”

  If I’d had a hand free I would have doffed my hat, but both hands were busy grasping the walls either side of the window.

  “Apology accepted, Mr. Wooster. Now do put him down, Herbert.”

  “I’ll put him down all right. I’ll put him on the terrace!”

  “No!” I tightened my grip. I clutched at straws. “I told you I was here to see Georgie. It was an honest mistake. My wits addled by unrequited love and chirping song-birds.”

  Perhaps it was the song-birds, but something calmed the savage Herbert and he released his grip.

  “Now get out!” he said.

  Hands free, I doffed my hat and withdrew from the room apace, apologising to one and all. “Awfully sorry. Complete misunderstanding. Too much sun. Surfeit of song-birds.”

  I fled the castle and hid at the far end of the Yew Alley, close to the wood, for half an hour, contemplating whether or not to write to Mr. Conan Doyle and ask how the Great Sleuth would have extricated himself from such a situation. I’d just reached the conclusion that the reply would have followed the lines of, “Never have an aunt for a client,” when Reeves arrived.

  “I believe congratulations are in order, sir.”

  “I fear your congratulations are misplaced, Reeves. I found nothing in Miss Smith’s room, other than to corroborate the existence of the tattoo and the correct spelling of Belgium.”

  “I was alluding to your engagement to Miss Georgiana, sir. It is the talk of the Servants’ Hall.”

  “What!”

  “It would appear that Miss Georgiana was witness to your declaration of love and was much moved. She has spoken to her father.”

  I slumped against a tree. “I didn’t see her there, Reeves.” But then I hadn’t been looking. I had left the room blinkered and avoiding every eye.

&n
bsp; They say that on the point of marriage, one’s future flashes before one’s eyes. Mine was a terrible sight. First, I saw the church, then...into the aisle of death strode the R. Wooster. Pomeranians to the right of me, Pomeranians to the left, and a canon in front of me. I was shatter’d and sunder’d before I passed the first pew.

  “You see before you a broken man, Reeves. I’m not ready for marriage.”

  “May I make a suggestion, sir?”

  “Suggest away, Reeves.”

  “If you were to perform a great service for his lordship, he may be disposed to intervene on your behalf with the young lady.”

  “Make her see reason, you mean?”

  “Or forbid the banns.”

  I could see a pig-sized hole in Reeves’s plan. Reason and Lord Twyneham did not enjoy the same relationship as did ‘horse’ and ‘cart.’ The ancient relic was likely to forget any service I performed within five minutes, or, worse, reward my efforts by welcoming me into the bosom of the Throstlecoombe family.

  “This service wouldn’t involve exorcising any pigs, would it, Reeves?”

  “Not exactly, sir. The task is one of passing a certain piece of information to his lordship. One that would make the eighth earl regard the messenger with considerable favour.”

  “Speak on, Reeves.”

  “Are you familiar with Sir Jasper Pomphrey’s pig, The Colossus of Blackwater?”

  “We don’t exchange cards at Christmas, Reeves, but I have heard of said animal. Is it really a devil pig? Are there chalked pentagrams in the Pomphrey Piggery? Piggery-pokery at Blackwater Hall?”

  “Quite, sir. I suspect the animal may be an artificial pig.”

  “What?”

  “An automaton, sir, like myself, though constructed to look and behave as a pig.”

  “Have you seen the pig?”

  “No, sir. I have surmised its nature from information gleaned from conversations in the Servant’s Hall.”

  Now that was sleuthing of the highest order.

  “Talk in the village, sir, is that Sir Jasper has doubled his coal order and installed a steam boiler in the pigsty. He maintains it is to keep the animal warm in the winter.”

  “But you suspect otherwise?”

  “Indeed I do, sir. Sir Jasper has also recently taken delivery of a substantial quantity of lead.”

  “Ah, and you deduce it’s not for his roofs?”

  “I do, sir. A lead-lined pig would be at a considerable advantage in a fat stock competition.”

  Of that there was little doubt, but — I stroked my chin pensively — information like this had to be used judiciously. A man delivering porcine tidings of great joy could well be looked upon as prime son-in-law material.

  “Pssst!” said Reeves.

  “Pardon?” A strange expression had settled upon Reeves’s face — one of slack-jawed incomprehension. I followed his gaze, turning to stare into the little wood behind me. Had he seen something? Pomphrey’s pig?

  “Pssst!” he hissed again. And then fell over.

  “Reeves!” I tried to catch him but he was toppling beyond my reach. He fell to the mossy floor like a dead weight. I knelt beside him, patted his cheeks, felt for a pulse but...I didn’t even know if he should have a pulse.

  I’d had Reeves for barely a day and already I’d broken him!

  Perhaps I’d overtaxed him? No one’s at his best after fourteen years in a cupboard.

  I had to seek help. Stiffy would know what to do. Ten paces into my dash for the Castle, I was struck by another thought. Lifeless bodies laid out across paths tended to get noticed — questions would be asked, policemen sent for.

  I ran back and dragged Reeves over to the trees and propped him up against a trunk. From a distance, it would look as if he were taking a nap.

  Ten minutes later, I was in the Castle hallway, stuffing a telegram into the pneumatic capsule and dropping it into the slot by the hall table. Urgent Stop Come at once Stop Reeves broken Stop Not my fault Stop Reggie.

  It was dark by the time Stiffy arrived. I flagged him down the second he drove through the gates, having camped out there for the best part of two hours whilst hiding from various fiancées, cousins and imminent fathers-in-law.

  I had even missed dinner. Which, for a Wooster, is something not entertained lightly.

  I brought Stiffy up to speed with events, omitting, as Watson always did, the scene involving the bedroom.

  “Have you topped him up?” asked Stiffy when I’d finished.

  “Reeves?”

  “Of course Reeves.”

  “Topped him up with what?”

  “Steam, you ass! Don’t you know anything about automata?”

  I had to shrug. “It wasn’t on the syllabus at Eton.”

  Nor, come to think of it, at Oxford. Unless there was a section in Greats I’d missed.

  “You’ve got to plug them into a steam outlet, Reggie. How did you think they took on fuel?”

  I shrugged again. “Nuggets of coal with their kippers, I suppose. And I’m not an ass. Steam may be very efficient at keeping parts moving but you can’t tell me it fuels the little grey cells. Everyone knows one needs fish to do that.”

  “He’s an automaton, Reggie! He can’t eat fish!”

  “I think you’re mistaken there, Stiffy. I fed him some earlier.”

  “You did what?”

  “I had the cook mash up some turbot with a little warm milk. And I must say he looked a sight perkier afterwards.”

  “You stuffed turbot in Reeves’s mouth?”

  “And some milk.”

  Stiffy’s eyes widened to such a degree that I feared for his forehead.

  “You are an ass.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You may have bunged up his works! Quick! Where is he?”

  I led Stiffy at a brisk pace across the castle grounds to the Yew Walk, lighting our way with a lantern I’d procured earlier — a lantern that an ass would not have had sufficient forethought to have requisitioned!

  I located Reeves and shone the light on his face. His eyes were open but they stared lifelessly ahead.

  “Grab a shoulder, Reggie, we need to get him to the Castle.”

  “Do you think that wise?”

  “We need a steam outlet, Reggie. There should be one at Crandle.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “How else would they top up the servants?”

  I was staggered. “The servants are automata?”

  “Aren’t they? Don’t all the big houses have automata below stairs these days?”

  My mind felt the magnetic pull of the borough of boggledom. I couldn’t have been more stupefied if Stiffy had struck me in the mazard with a lead-lined pig.

  “Not the cooks, surely?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  We hoisted Reeves to his feet and, not without some difficulty, proceeded to half carry, half drag his steamless body down the Yew Walk and back to the Castle. All the time, I couldn’t help but wonder how many meals I had consumed in the past ten years that had been prepared by mechanical chefs. Might they have added engine oil to the salad? An easy mistake to make for a mechanical chef one would suppose.

  The lights of the Castle loomed into view and I steered a course for the cobbled yard at the back where the door to the servants quarters was. I left Stiffy propping Reeves up by the back door and galloped off in search of Dawson, the venerable butler. No one knew the Castle better than he.

  I found him in the Servant’s Hall, drinking tea, or, something that looked remarkably like tea. Can one make an engine oil tisane? A half dozen other servants were imbibing likewise. All heads turned at my entrance.

  “Ah, what ho, Dawson. Sorry to disturb and all that, but could I have a word?”

  We stepped into the corridor, Dawson moving with his usual silent and effortless grace. I had put his near supernatural ability to glide in and out of rooms unheard down to his mastery of the butling arts. But p
erhaps it was just superior lubricating oil.

  “I’m looking for the Crandle steam outlet, Dawson. Where would one find it?”

  “Steam outlet, sir?”

  “Yes, for...you know...mechanical people. Automata.”

  Dawson shook his head, and added several tut-tuts. “Lord Twyneham would never allow them into the house, sir. He disapproves.”

  As, by his manner, did Dawson.

  “Ah, well...that’s a relief. I didn’t think his lordship would have allowed it but, you know, one has to check. One never knows who’s preparing one’s meals in London. Good to see Crandle still has standards.”

  I left swiftly.

  “Quick,” I said to Stiffy as soon as I reached him. “We’ve got to get Reeves out of here. Automata are machina non grata at Crandle.”

  If any further proof were required viz. the state of Reginald Wooster’s mental faculties, we’d no sooner ducked under the small gate of the rear courtyard when an idea, like cupid’s arrow slightly off course, struck the Wooster noggin. Pomphrey’s pig had its own steam boiler! Now, would an ass have made a connection like that?

  “Come on, Stiffy. I know where there’s an outlet.”

  I am not sure about the best laid plans of mice, but I nod the head to Robert Burns when it comes to those laid down by men. Mine was half agley by the time, huffing and puffing, we reached Stiffy’s car. I had no idea where Pomphrey’s piggery was.

  “You really are...an ass!” said Stiffy in between deep breaths.

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Yes, you...jolly well are.”

  I had a strong sense of deja vu. Had not this very conversation occurred at this very spot less than half an hour earlier?

  “It can’t be...difficult to spot.” I wheezed. “We’ll drive to...Blackwater Hall...and take a look.”

  Blackwater Hall was in darkness, which could be good — if everyone was in bed — or bad — if Lord T. was correct and Sir Jasper was communing with Lucifer in the pig house.

  Stiffy parked his car close to a block of outbuildings and, leaving Reeves propped up in the back seat, we set off in search of the piggery. Five minutes and three outbuildings later we were stopped in our tracks by an unusual noise.