Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) Read online

  Wait a minute!

  “How can Snuggles have reanimated Guy if his body had been burned at the stake?”

  “He wasn’t burned,” said Mr S-F. “He was hung, drawn and quartered.”

  “Are you sure? If he wasn’t burned, why do we burn effigies of him every Bonfire Night?”

  “One supposes, sir,” said Reeves. “That Hanging, Drawing and Quartering Night would not convey the same message of festive family fun as Bonfire Night.”

  Reeves, as ever, had a point.

  “I have a colour photograph,” said Mr S-F, his right hand reaching inside his topcoat. “Mr Snuggles likes to keep a record of his work and took this with his Autochrome just before the reanimation began. You can compare it to contemporary drawings of my unfortunate relative. It is definitely he. A year after his execution, the family collected all his remains and had them interred in our vault at St Stephen’s.”

  I had a look at the photograph. It showed a tall, stocky man with a bright orange complexion and strands of reddish brown hair emanating from his scalp, upper lip and chin.

  “Was his face always that colour?” I asked.

  “Having one’s head impaled on a spike and exhibited on London Bridge for three months is wont to be hard on the complexion, sir,” said Reeves.

  “That’s all very well,” I said. “But he’s bright orange. His hands, too.”

  “That’s the revitalising skin cream,” said Mr S-F. “Guy’s skin was grey and cracked, and as dry as dust when we exhumed him. Unfortunately the most efficacious skin revitalizer, though a marvel of modern skin care for the departed, has an artificial tanning agent. It is French.”

  “Should be easy to spot then, don’t you think, Reeves? Large orange man in tattered Jacobean clothing.”

  “That’s what Snuggles and I thought. But not one of the local traders has seen hide nor hair of him.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by a clattering of feet upon the stairs, shortly followed by the arrival of a middle-aged cove with an abundance of long, lank, black hair. He stopped dead in the doorway the moment he saw us.

  “Oh,” he said, his startled expression giving way to an oily smile. “Mr. Scrottleton-Ffoukes, sir. And you are accompanied. May I inquire as to the identity of these gentlemen?”

  “This is Mr Worcester, the gentleman’s consulting detective, and his man. They’re here to help us find Guy. Have you had any luck, Snuggles?”

  Back came the startled expression. “You’ve told them about ... him, sir?”

  “Of course. We need expert help and Mr Worcester is the soul of discretion.”

  “It’s a consulting detective’s middle name,” I said. “Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m investigating.”

  “In that case, sir, I can report that I have travelled as far south as the Old Vauxhall Bridge and as far east as Victoria station, and no one reports seeing anyone fitting your illustrious ancestor’s description.”

  Snuggles smiled unctuously, reminding me of a used Zeppelin salesman I’d once been seated next to at Henley.

  While Mr S-F brought Snuggles up to speed viz. doors and boots, I gave the latter the once-over with a consulting detective’s deductive eyeball.

  Snuggles’ hair was long, which spoke of a bohemian nature. It was greasy and unwashed, which meant — I struggled there — was that the mark of a cove who’d fallen upon hard times or a bachelor? His suit looked old and worn which could support the former theory. And he had no flower in his buttonhole which could, again, mean hard times or, equally, a falling out with his florist.

  This deduction lark was not as easy as S. H. made out. Snuggles had no walking cane or pocket watch that I could examine, and I felt uncomfortable about asking him to remove his shoes.

  Snuggles inhaled sharply. “Someone kidnapped Mr Fawkes? But that’s impossible ... unless...”

  “Unless what?” asked Mr S-F.

  “No,” said Snuggles, shaking his head. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”

  The moment I heard the word, I knew it had to be an important clue. We detectives take a very dim view of coincidence. Murgatroyd of The Yard refuses to believe such a thing even exists, and has been known — notably in the Mysterious Body Part in the Butler’s Pantry – to take his walking cane to any of his underlings who suggest otherwise.

  “What coincidence?” I asked.

  “I thought I was being followed yesterday, sir. An erroneous notion, I’m sure, but ... what struck me as odd was that the gentleman in question had an orange hue to his skin.”

  ~

  “You were being followed by a Promethean?”

  “I thought I was being followed, but I could easily have been mistaken.”

  If ever a consulting detective needed a bracing restorative this was that time. My little grey cells were as parched as they were boggled. Who was this other Promethean and why was he following Snuggles?

  “Did you recognise the Promethean?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “He couldn’t have been one of your former...” I struggled for the word. Was there a word for a Promethean one had made earlier? A reanimatee? A patient? “Someone you reanimated last month perhaps? In disguise and pining for his maker.”

  I wasn’t sure if a Promethean could pine, but I didn’t see why not. One hears of ducklings imprinting upon the first soul they see when they pop their shell. Couldn’t a Promethean feel the same?

  Suddenly I could see a motive. A jealous Promethean discovering Snuggles had a new charge!

  Snuggles’ next sentence threw a bucket of cold Perrier over my excitement. “I haven’t reanimated anyone for over a month,” he said. “And this man must have been reanimated within the last three weeks.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because the orange hue begins to fade after that. The makers of ReVitaCorpse recommend daily applications of their cream for a maximum of fourteen days. Beyond that, its effects are deleterious and can lead to inflammation, boils and atrophy.”

  Reeves coughed. “If I may ask Mr Snuggles a few questions, sir?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Is the use of this orange unguent widespread?”

  “I would not call it widespread. It’s very expensive and has only been available in England for a few months.”

  “Indeed. Is its use recommended for all Prometheans or only for those, like Mr Fawkes, who have been long dead?”

  “It’s recommended for treating any part that has been deprived of life for more than 48 hours. Fresh body parts are notoriously difficult to obtain these days. Even the teaching hospitals have tightened their procedures.”

  Reeves paused and for a moment I was concerned his pressure might be dropping but, no, back he came with another question. “Are all your jars of ReVitaCorpse accounted for? Mr Fawkes’ abductor may have seen fit to take some with him. One would imagine that thirteen additional applications would require a considerable amount of ointment.”

  Snuggles scurried over to a shelf and ran his fingers along the assorted row of pots and jars before returning with what looked like a large, decorated, ointment pot.

  “They are both there. A full one, and this one I opened yesterday,” he said, handing it to me. “I bought them both from Fortnum’s Promethean Essentials department. I believe they are the only stockist in London.”

  The pot must have weighed several pounds and there was a slight odour which I couldn’t quite place. I read the label on the front:

  ReVitaCorpse

  by

  Estée Morguer of Paris

  Is your corpse suffering from hard-to-get-rid-of noose lines? Or unsightly patches of mould? Use Estée Morguer’s two-in-one blemish remover — with ReVitaCorpse-666 — the ultimate treatment for dry, mouldering skin.

  Now with added pine oil to give your corpse that freshly dug smell.

  As used on Prince Albert.

  “Prince Albert’s been re-animated?” I said.

  “
Not our Prince Albert, sir,” said Snuggles. “The Belgian one. He’s the nephew of King Leopold. I am told it took years off him.”

  “Related to the Prince of Orange, is he?” I said, rather pleased at the speed of the Worcester wit.

  “No, sir. He’s Belgian, not Dutch,” said Snuggles.

  Even the best bon mot is lost on some people.

  “Wouldn’t that play havoc with the succession?” I asked. “I mean there you are one day King of all the Belgians and next day up pop five late uncles and a bright orange great grandfather. Who’s the king?”

  Snuggles shrugged. “That would be one for the lawyers, sir. Though some might argue that that particular problem is peculiar to monarchies. A meritocracy would have no such problem.”

  “Quite,” said Reeves. “May I suggest, sir, we visit Fortnum’s and inquire about recent purchases of ReVitaCorpse?”

  “All in good time, Reeves,” I said. “First we have to complete our examination of the scene. Now, Snuggles, do you notice anything missing? A spare tonsil removed from its jar? Or something present that shouldn’t be? Criminals are always leaving clues. They try not to, but they always do. A muddy footprint, cigar ash, a length of rope with an oddly shaped knot. Speak out if anyone sees anything unexpected.”

  We searched the room thoroughly, examining jars and pulling out drawers. Then, as I was crawling under a desk, I noticed something small, wrinkled ... and orange.

  “What ho, what ho, what ho,” I said. “There’s something under here.”

  I picked it up and brought it out into the light.

  “What is it?” said Mr S-F.

  “It’s a bit shrivelled but ... is it a finger?” I hoped it was a finger.

  Mr. Snuggles had a look. “It’s a finger all right. And it’s definitely from a recent Promethean. The tissue is healing but you can still see the damage.”

  “And it’s orange,” I added.

  “Might I suggest, sir,” said Reeves, “that we seek canine assistance. The bloodhound is well known for its ability to track a person by their scent.”

  “Do we know any bloodhounds, Reeves? We don’t have time to drive about the country looking for off-duty bloodhounds. Won’t any dog do?”

  “It is true that all canines possess a remarkable sense of smell, sir.”

  “Then I think I know just the chap.”

  Three

  inky Binghampton was the man to see viz. our canine friends. If it had four legs and surveyed postmen with a frosty disposition, Binky knew of it.

  “Before we leave, sir, might I suggest that Mr Scrottleton-Ffoukes return home in case he has been sent a ransom note? And that Mr Snuggles inquire of his fellow reanimators as to whether there have been any similar abductions in recent weeks?”

  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Reeves’s brain is a marvel. Maybe it’s all that steam — blowing all the cobwebs away — that gives him such clarity of thought.

  Reeves and I left Great Smith Street and ankled it back to the Stanley.

  “Can you see Emmeline?” I asked as we neared Parliament Gate.

  “No, sir. Miss Emmeline and her companions appear to have been removed.”

  Indeed they had. Six broken chains and a bedraggled ostrich feather were all that remained. I gathered up the rightmost chain and stowed it in the Stanley. I knew Emmeline wouldn’t want to lose her favourite chain.

  “Do you think we should drive to the police station and post bail?”

  “I fear Miss Emmeline would decline, sir. She did appear intent upon pursuing her cause to the courts.”

  I climbed into the Stanley, glanced momentarily in the general direction of Bosher Street Magistrate Courts, then set course for Binky’s flat in Audley Square.

  As luck would have it we arrived just as Binky was returning from his morning constitutional around Hyde Park. He was accompanied by an odd-looking canine of uncertain parentage.

  “What ho, Binky,” I said, jumping down from the Stanley. “How are you on bloodhounds? On first name terms with any of the local specimens?”

  “What ho, Reggie. What do you want a bloodhound for? You’re not thinking of getting a dog, are you?”

  “Only to borrow. I need a four-legged friend who can follow a scent. I have a missing person who needs to be found.”

  “Well if it’s a tracker you want, you can’t do better than old Farquharson here. He has the finest nose in all of London.”

  “He does?”

  I surveyed Farquharson and one of Farquharson’s eyes surveyed me. The other appeared to move independently and was more interested in the lamppost. One didn’t have to be a trained consulting detective to notice that there was something rummy about Farquharson. He looked like an ancient bulldog that had been badly stuffed by an ill-tempered taxidermist. He had lumps where one would not normally expect a lump to be. And his body was covered in scars — one was still puckered and showing signs of recent stitching.

  “Are you sure he’s up to it?” I asked. “He looks like he’s been in the wars.”

  “He may be old, but he has the heart of a young dog. Literally. He’s a Promethean, don’t you know? I couldn’t bear to lose old Farquharson, so I had him reanimated. It wasn’t cheap, mind you. Cost me an arm and a leg — not to mention the heart and lungs.”

  “Does he talk?”

  “Talk? He’s a dog, Reggie. Dogs don’t talk.”

  “Are you sure? He doesn’t bark with a Scots accent by any chance?”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “I believe Mr Worcester is recalling the pig, sir,” said Reeves.

  “Pig? What pig?”

  “A Promethean pig, sir. We encountered a specimen last month who could speak.”

  “Really?”

  “With a Scots accent,” I added.

  “Well I never.”

  All three of us looked at Farquharson in case he wanted to comment, but nothing, except a lolling tongue and a prodigious string of drool, escaped his lips.

  “Are you sure you don’t know any bloodhounds?” I asked. “I don’t want to overtax the poor chap.”

  “You could never overtax Farquharson. He loves his walks. And there’s nothing he loves better than following a scent. He’ll have your missing person treed in no time.”

  I took another long look at Farquharson. “What do you think, Reeves?”

  “I think this is a case of ‘needs must,’ sir. One would suspect that the scent trail will soon begin to dissipate.”

  ~

  Stowing Farquharson in the Stanley was problematic. He kept escaping from the foot well and climbing up onto our laps. And driving whilst having one’s ears cleaned out with slobber was far from pleasant.

  Farquharson didn’t appear to handle stairs well, either. Climbing the three flights to Snuggles’ attic laboratory took much cajoling, some pushing, and a modicum of dragging. By the second flight I understood why very few consulting detectives include a dog on their staff.

  At the top I pushed open the door to the lab and the three of us entered, one at speed and one — Reginald Worcester, consulting detective — dragged along behind on the end of its lead.

  “Sit. Stay! Reeves!”

  Farquharson not only didn’t talk, he didn’t listen, either. It was only when his lead became entangled with a table leg that our progress was halted, allowing Reeves to grasp the animal securely by the collar.

  Time, I thought, to give Farquharson the finger.

  I handed the lead to Reeves while I rummaged in my coat pocket. “I’ll let him have a good sniff, then we’ll see where he leads us.”

  I held the finger close to Farquharson’s nose and wafted it back and forth. He gave it a good sniff then ... lunged forward and ate it.

  One swallow may not make a summer, but it was more than enough to remove our only clue!

  “He’s eaten it!”

  “So I observed, sir. Most unfortunate.”

  “What do we do now?”

&n
bsp; “I hesitate to say, sir.”

  “But me no hesitations, Reeves. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.”

  “Well...”

  “Come on, Reeves. Spit it out.”

  “I did observe that Farquharson swallowed the finger whole. One could await nature to take its course and ... retrieve the finger.”

  Even steam-cleaned brains have their off days.

  “Reeves,” I said. “I fear one of your sub-routines has developed an unpleasant malfunction.”

  “I did hesitate to mention it, sir”

  “Not long enough.”

  Farquharson, who had been largely silent since the finger incident, suddenly began to retch, his chest heaving in increasing amplitude until...

  Bleugh!

  Out flew a finger, landing forlornly on the floorboards.

  “Is it the finger?” I asked, leaning forward for a closer look.

  “One would suppose it unlikely that Farquharson had previously partaken of another finger, sir.”

  “I’m not so sure. He has the look of a dog with unusual appetites. This could be all that’s left of a postman he encountered earlier.”

  Farquharson kept his own counsel, sitting very still and looking pensive. He could have been on the verge of coughing up a kneecap, or he could have been debating a second go at the finger.

  Reeves bent down and retrieved the digit. “It is orange, sir. I believe it would be a safe assumption that this is the same finger you discovered earlier.”

  We gave it another go. I held Farquharson by the lead and collar while Reeves carefully wafted the orange digit in front of the dog’s nose.

  This time it must have taken, for Farquharson started sniffing excitedly and turned his attention towards the floor. I let go of his collar and let him sniff and snuffle his way around the attic ... and out the door.

  Farquharson descended the stairs considerably swifter than he’d climbed them. As, unfortunately, did I. Reeves caught up with us while Farquharson was distracted by an ambrosial lamppost.

  “Your turn,” I said, puffing hard as I handed over the lead.

  Dog and valet proceeded to shoot off in the general direction of the Houses of Parliament, Farquharson pulling and wheezing while Reeves did his best to slow the animal down. I followed, growing more and more impressed with the nasal powers of our four-legged sleuth, until he dragged Reeves into a butcher’s shop just off Parliament Square.