by Chris Dolley
“Shouldn’t the timeline give us an extra necklace when it next rewrites itself?”
“One can hope, sir. But I think we should assume it will not. If we assiduously reverse all of Mrs Dean’s changes that we can, there is a good chance that the timeline of 1903 will be sufficiently close to the original that we can find Mr Wells and forewarn him of his aunt’s intentions.”
~
So that was what we did. Year after year, we followed Aunt C from the wine cellar, noted when she borrowed money and when she didn’t, and replaced everything she took.
By the time we reached 1901, all we had left were two necklaces. We’d paid out the last tenner the year before. And then we watched Aunt C — in 1901 — touch her husband for another tenner.
“Reeves, remind me to come prepared next time we go righting past wrongs. If I’d been forewarned I’d have brought more money with me. I only have a fiver!”
“I have two pounds, ten shillings and six pence, sir.”
“Do you think the butterflies will take umbrage at us short changing Mr Dean? I could leave my watch.”
“No, sir. I think an unexpected gentleman’s watch would cause far more comment than a missing two pounds, nine shillings and six pence.”
Reeves’ humour had improved considerable since the mid-Victorian period. As had mine. The Dean household was looking well furnished. The wine cellar was devoid of turnips. And Reeves had hit upon a plan.
“I have a plan,” he said as I deposited our last necklace into Aunt C’s jewellery box. “There is a certain element of risk, sir, but I believe it to be our best chance.”
“What is it?”
“We shall write a letter to Mr Wells, sir. There is an escritoire there next to the dresser. It should contain paper, envelopes and stamps. We shall warn him of his aunt’s intentions.”
We composed the note.
Dear Mr Wells,
URGENT
Don’t mention the existence of your time machine to your Aunt Charlotte. She steals it in 1904 and causes havoc to the timeline. Still trying to fix it.
“How shall I sign it?” I asked. “R Worcester, gentleman’s consulting detective?”
“I think not, sir. Mr Wells would likely call upon you after receiving such a letter and ask questions. That would be in 1902, sir. You wouldn’t know what he was talking about, and he would begin to doubt the veracity of the missive. I would suggest you sign as ‘The Traveller.’”
“Spot on, Reeves!”
I signed it, folded it into the envelope, applied a stamp, and...
“Where do we send it, Reeves? Do you know his address?”
“No, sir, but I am reliably informed that publishers will forward letters to their authors. Mr Wells is published by William Heinemann of Covent Garden.”
Reeves had even worked out how to deliver the letter to Covent Garden. He’d noticed, during our many trips up and down the stairs, a silver salver on a small table at the foot of the stairs. It had to be where the family left their letters for the servants to post.
Still in thrall to the Amazonian butterflies, Reeves insisted we park the time machine next to the salver, and materialise for just the single second it took me to reach out and deposit the letter.
“Well, Reeves,” I said. “This is it. Next stop 1904. The dice have been rolled, the cards played, and we’ve given of our best.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Whatever we see — whether it be sixty aunts, Bertie and Gertie the Siamese twins, or a house full of turnips — no blame shall rest upon your shoulders, Reeves. You have gone above and beyond — and backwards and forwards.”
“Thank you, sir. That is most kind.”
“Hit the button, Reeves.”
I not only braced myself, I screwed my eyes tight shut. I felt the buffeting, heard the whirr and whine of the large parasol thingy on the back.
And then felt everything go quiet and still.
I opened one eye.
No turnips. The door to the drawing room was six feet in front of us on the right. I listened intently. Even though I knew we were insulated from the sounds and smells of the world outside of the machine, I strained to listen, hoping to pick up some early clue as to what we might find on the other side of that wall.
Reeves turned the steering wheel and the machine swung towards the drawing room wall, moving forwards as it did so, into the wall and out into...
...The drawing room we’d first encountered in 1904. The chandelier was back, as was the Stubbs and the Persian rugs. But no Bertie or Gertie. Or horde of aunts. The only occupants were a single Aunt Charlotte and her husband — who I was pretty sure wasn’t Henry VIII. She was reading a magazine and he a newspaper.
“Is this good?” I asked, hopefully.
“It is a positive sign, sir,” said Reeves.
“What do we do next?”
“I think the safest course of action, sir, is to take the machine to the flat. There we can consult Who’s Who to verify that Mr Wells has been restored to his former position and, if so, where he resides.”
I didn’t want to say anything — in case I tempted the butterflies — but this felt very much like the last page of a penultimate chapter. You know the one — the detective has unmasked the murderer, and is quietly accepting the plaudits before he wraps up all the loose ends.
Reeves engaged the spatial whatnot, swung the time machine around and drove straight through the nearest wall. We emerged into the hazy brightness of the street outside, and turned for Piccadilly. Sometimes we drove on the pavement. Sometimes we drove on the road. And sometimes we drove through people’s houses.
I warmed to this mode of transport. If it could go a little faster, and wasn’t surrounded in its own permanent pea-souper, I’d order one myself. Having automobiles and Hansom cabs drive straight through one was a bit disconcerting at first, but one soon got used to it.
We sailed into the old flat through a second floor window.
“Do we have to give this back to Mr Wells, Reeves? I can see it coming in very handy in future cases. No pun intended.”
“I would advise strongly against it, sir. I do not wish to find myself in the unexpected employment of Miss Regina Worcester, gentleman’s turnip consultant.”
Reeves had a point.
He parked the machine in the sitting room, and hesitated.
“Before I commence rematerialisation, sir. May I enquire if you have any memories of Queen Charlottes?”
“You’re asking the wrong person, Reeves. I never could keep up with all the queens Henry VIII married.”
“Very good, sir.”
My beloved apartment shed its misty veil and crystallised into sharp relief. We were back!
I beetled over to the bookcase, pulled out Who’s Who and began to thumb through the pages. Wells, Wells, Wells... And there he was! Herbert George Wells, publications: Time Machine 1895; address:13 Hanover Terrace, Regent’s Park. I checked Henry VIII next. Not a single Charlotte.
“I think a celebratory cocktail is called for, what?”
“I think a swift celebratory cocktail would be in order, sir. Though I confess myself somewhat uneasy at the presence of Mr Wells’ time machine in the flat. The sooner we return it the better.”
“Have no fear, Reeves. Swift is my middle name when it comes to cocktails.”
Reeves oiled over to the drinks cabinet while I perused the ecclesiastical pages of Who’s Who looking for Pope Charlotte.
“No Pope Charlotte either,” I said. “Reeves? Is something wrong?”
Reeves was standing by the drinks cabinet, drink in hand, staring blankly at the floor behind the sofa.
“There appears to be a deceased gentleman behind the sofa, sir.”
Six
Who is it?”
“It isn’t someone I recognise, sir.”
I hurried over to take a look. It was no one I recognised either. He was a stout chap of middle age, and was dressed rather oddly. I bent down for a c
loser look.
“I think it best not to touch it, sir.”
I sprang back. “You think it might have something catching?”
“No, sir, I was thinking of fingerprints. The police tend to look with considerable disfavour upon householders with dead bodies in their sitting rooms.”
Very true. As Murgatroyd of the Yard was fond of saying ‘A sitting room is for sitting, sir, not for murdering.’
“What’s he doing here?” I said. “We didn’t run him over, did we?”
“We couldn’t have, sir. If we’d materialised on top of him, he would be underneath the time machine, not behind the sofa.”
“Is this one of those timeline consequences? We decided on a quick snifter instead of returning Mr Wells’ machine post haste and the butterflies took umbrage?”
“I really cannot say, sir. This is most confusing.”
Our quandary was interrupted by a sudden hammering on the front door.
“Open up! It’s the police!”
We Worcesters are known for our quick thinking. When a policeman bangs on our door, we do not tarry.
“Quick, Reeves!” I hissed. “Give me a hand with our deceased friend and dial up the past.”
“I strongly advise against that, sir. It will make matters worse.”
“Worse? We have a dead body and a stolen time machine in the flat. How can it get any worse?”
“Very easily, sir. You yourself have witnessed how minor changes to the past can cause major repercussions to the present.”
More hammering. “We know you’re in there! Open this door!”
“Let’s dump him in the future then. I’m not proposing we leave him there — just hide him there until we work out what to do with him.”
Reeves helped me carry the body over to the time machine.
“I think a less risky solution, sir, is to stay in the present and use the time machine’s spatial abilities to make good our escape.”
“We can hear you in there, sir! If you don’t open this door in three seconds, we’ll break it down!”
I slid onto the passenger seat with the dead body precariously balanced on my lap. Reeves jumped in beside me and, just as the first blow rained down upon the Worcester front door, we disappeared into netherspace.
My view of proceedings was somewhat obscured by the stout, and very heavy, deceased gentleman upon my lap. I didn’t see the door broken open, but I saw three ghostly policemen rush into my sitting room, truncheons raised.
They seemed somewhat taken aback by not finding anyone at home. They ran from room to room, looked out windows, scratched their heads, and then began turning my flat upside down.
After one minute of being pinned to the passenger seat, I feared I was losing the circulation in my legs. “Reeves, this is no good. The rozzers look like they’re going to tear the flat apart for the next half-hour, and I don’t think I’ll have any blood left in my legs by the end of it. We’ve got to dump this body.”
“I will try upstairs, sir. Major Arbuthnot may be out.”
He was not. We floated up through the ceiling to find the Major entertaining half a dozen friends.
“I’ll try next door, sir.”
“No, Reeves. We can’t dump dead bodies on our neighbours. Let’s go back to the flat, hop a week into the future, and have a good look at this body. There’ll be clues. There always are.”
“If you insist, sir,” said Reeves, a little sniffily.
Off we shot and reappeared in the flat one week hence. Reeves helped drag the body off my lap, and then stretched it out on the carpet while I tried to rub some life back into my poor legs. At least the flat was back to its pristine state. And we had a new door.
“We do not appear to be at home, sir,” said Reeves peering into the kitchen.
I hadn’t considered the possibility of meeting myself. “Do you think we knew we were coming and decided to be out?”
“That is a distinct possibility, sir.”
“Still, I think I would have left a note for myself. Dear Reggie, here’s all the information you need. And whatever you do don’t forget to a put a tenner on Rich Lad in the 3:30 at Kempton last Tuesday.”
Reeves coughed disapprovingly. “I suggest we examine the body and return promptly, sir.”
I circumnavigated the deceased, summoning up all my deductive powers. The man was of middle age, with a full face and receding brown hair. He had the full complement of arms and legs and no obvious bruises or wounds.
“I think we can rule out axe murderers, stranglers, and killer hounds, Reeves.”
“Indeed, sir.”
I’d read somewhere that if you looked into the face of a murdered man you’d see the image of their killer imprinted upon their eyes. Or was that the person you were going to marry? I was pretty sure it was one or the other.
I leaned forward a little and tried a tentative peer, but the prospect of seeing Emmeline on a dead man’s eyeballs drew me back. I decided to turn my focus upon his clothes instead.
They were old — in style, that is — but well cut, and not at all threadbare.
“Is that a frock coat, Reeves?”
“Yes, sir. “
“1880s do you think?”
“By the cut I would hazard an earlier date, sir. 1850s.”
“Can you see a cause of death?”
Reeves bent down for a closer look and after a short while began unbuttoning the man’s coat. The fatal wound soon became apparent. There was a large bloodstain on his waistcoat.
“He appears to have been shot in the chest, sir,” said Reeves. “One can see the hole where the bullet entered the waistcoat.” Reeves turned the body over. “One can also see the hole in the frock coat where it exited.”
So one could, and the dark stain surrounding it. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. The dark grey of the frock coat was only a few shades lighter than the stain. I checked the front of my clothes. Had any blood soaked through onto me?
It hadn’t. The blood must have dried.
“How long do you think he’s been dead, Reeves?”
“I am not an expert, sir. Long enough for the blood to dry. The body is not in a state of rigor, so it could be several hours or, indeed, several days.”
“Did you see a blood stain on the carpet behind the sofa?”
“I did not, sir. Or anywhere else in the sitting room. It would appear the deceased was killed elsewhere and deposited behind the sofa some time later.”
Reeves checked all the man’s pockets — in both the frock coat and the waistcoat. All were bare.
“The tailor’s label has been cut from his frock coat, sir.”
“That’s odd. What about his shirt and waistcoat?”
I waited whilst Reeves rummaged.
“The same, sir.”
And the same for his trousers too. Someone did not want this man identified.
“So,” I said. “We have a nameless man who may, or may not, originate from the 1850s, who’s been murdered and dumped in my sitting room by someone who’s gone to great lengths to conceal his identity.”
“It would appear so, sir. Someone with access to a time machine.”
~
My head was spinning. Who could it be? Aunt Charlotte? HG Wells? The Traveller? Someone else? And why?
“I suggest we move the deceased to the bathroom, sir. And stow him there while we return to the present.”
I was wondering if we should leave a note — Sorry about the guest in the bathroom. Will return anon to sort out, R — when a thought struck me.
“Reeves, what if it was us who dumped the body?”
“Sir?”
“Well, here we are dumping a dead body in the future. What if our future selves had had a similar thought? They’d come home, found a dead body, panicked, and used the time machine to dump the body in the past?”
“I rather hope, sir, we would not have the time machine in the future, and so the circumstance would not arise.”
“Hm
m, you may be right, Reeves. I think I would have a left a note too. One can’t dump deceased guests on people without some sort of explanation. It’s not British.”
I jotted an explanatory note for my future self, and was about to leave it on the drinks cabinet, when I noticed there was a cocktail glass on the cabinet. A full cocktail glass.
“This is odd, Reeves?” Cocktails do not get abandoned in the Worcester household without good reason. Had my future self been forced to flee at short notice?
Reeves appeared at my shoulder. “Most odd, sir. I believe that may be the drink I placed there last week when I first encountered the deceased.”
“It’s been there a week? Where were we all that time? Didn’t we get back?”
“I think we should leave at once, sir.”
We beetled back to the time machine and jumped aboard. Reeves set the dials, adjusted the levers and hit the button that sent us flying back to the past. I steadied myself. My plan was to fly from the machine the moment the room re-crystallised, and attempt to open the front door before it was broken down by the stout shoulders of the law.
We materialised. There was a thud from the door.
“Wait!” I shouted, leaping from the vehicle so fast I nearly overbalanced. “I’m coming!” The front door was thankfully still in place, but I could hear muffled conversation on the other side. “No need to break the door down. I’m coming!”
I unlocked the door and pulled it open. Three burly policemen — one sergeant and two constables — stood on the threshold with truncheons at the ready.
“Reginald Worcester?” said the sergeant, using the same tone that magistrates use when about to pass sentence.
“I am he, officer.” I was thinking of something cutting to say viz. breaking down law-abiding citizen’s doors but, before I could come up with anything withering, I was asked to step aside.
“I’m not sure if I shall step aside, officer.”
“Step aside, sir, or I’ll arrest you.”
“On what grounds?”
“For bleeding all over my truncheon.”
I stepped aside.
The three custodians of the law rushed past me.
“Who are you?” the sergeant asked Reeves while the constables searched the sitting room.