Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) by Chris Dolley

for the brain.”
    I eyed Reeves with suspicion, and had a good mind to conduct a search of the butler’s pantry, for I was sure I’d seen at least two bottles of the restorative nectar the previous evening.
    But good manners prevailed. “Could you rustle up some kippers while you’re at it, Reeves? I think we’re going to need all the fish we can eat.”
    The kippers went down a treat. I could feel their replenishing powers on my little grey cells which, up to then, had been feeling more green than grey. But what next? In less than twenty-four hours the Houses of Parliament would be opened a lot wider than people were expecting. And only Reginald Worcester stood between the Queen and a red-hot poker.
    I puffed on a contemplative cheroot.
    What would Sherlock Holmes do? Would he find out where Jasper Mortimer, Snuggles and Scrottleton-Ffoukes lived and wait outside their homes until they led him to the tunnel? I didn’t think there was time. And what if we followed the wrong one just as he set off for a week’s holiday in Paris?
    “Perhaps if we stopped the ceremony,” said Emmeline. “I could chain myself to the gates and stop the Queen entering parliament. Then the bomb would go off and no one would get hurt.”
    “They’d cut your chains and whisk you away, Emmy. It wouldn’t delay them more than five minutes.”
    “I think I may have a solution, sir,” said Reeves as he cleared away the plates.
    “You do?”
    “Yes, sir. To create an explosion large enough to bring down the Houses of Parliament would require a considerable amount of explosives.”
    “I see where you’re going with this, Reeves. Where would one buy explosives? Do Fortnum’s sell gelignite hampers?”
    “Unlikely, sir. But I don’t think we need to ascertain where the explosives are coming from as we know their destination.”
    “The Houses of Parliament!”
    “Exactly, sir. One would imagine that a consignment of that size would necessitate a large cart or, indeed, a barge. And it would take some time to unload.”
    My rejuvenated little grey cells could see it all. “And the tunnel entrance has got to be pretty close to Parliament. So if we three patrol the surrounding area looking for suspicious deliveries, we’ll have them!”
    “What if they’ve already unloaded the explosives?” asked Emmeline.
    “I suspect not, miss. One would think, after three hundred years of fires and rebuilding, that London would look considerable changed to Mr Fawkes. More than likely the entrance to the tunnel has been blocked or even built over, so, one would suspect, that it would take some time to gain access to it.”
    ~
    Off we went to Parliament Square where, thankfully, no one was protesting. The dead and the deranged would no doubt take their turn tomorrow to demand the vote.
    “Be on the lookout for Snuggles, Scrottleton-Ffoukes or anyone orange,” I said. “And any strange carts or wagons. We’ll meet back here in ... what do you think, Reeves? An hour?”
    “Sixty minutes should prove sufficient to undertake a preliminary inspection, sir.”
    I set off at a nonchalant pace as if on an afternoon stroll. Sometimes I took in the sights to my left and sometimes I took in the sights to my right, but never with the gimlet eye of the suspicious policeman. We consulting detectives prefer to observe inconspicuously — to blend into the background — and today I was Nebuchadnezzar Blenkinsop’s less furtive cousin, Sennacherib, out for an afternoon stroll.
    I wandered the streets around Whitehall. I ambled along the Victoria Embankment. I stopped for a while on Westminster Bridge to contemplate the river...
    And saw nothing. There were no barges moored alongside Parliament. No suspicious carts parked in side streets, and no sign of anyone remotely orange.
    Emmeline and Reeves reported a similar lack of findings when I joined them later.
    “What do we do now?” asked Emmeline. “I have to be home in an hour. Mother was adamant that I