Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) by Chris Dolley Page A

couldn’t miss tea two days running.”
    I was at a loss. If Reeves was right, and he invariably was, there should be a cartload of explosives waiting to be unloaded. But where was it?
    “Do you think Farquharson could sniff out dynamite, Reeves?” I asked.
    “I would question his olfactory abilities, sir, and fear he would once more lead us to the nearest purveyor of fine meats.”
    Or, even worse, to the Abbey. With Farquharson’s antipathy towards the clergy anything could happen.
    “It is possible, sir,” continued Reeves. “That the conspirators have delayed the unloading of the explosives until the cover of darkness.”
    Cometh the hour, cometh the brain.
    “We’ll meet here again at ten then,” I said.
    “I can’t,” said Emmeline. “Father won’t allow me out at night without a chaperone.”
    I recalled that young Jane Marple, girl detective, had a similar problem in The Axe Murderer in the Fourth Form .
    “It won’t be that beastly maid again will it?” I asked. My memory was still raw from the last time. The woman had an opinion on everything, an opinion that was universally scathing.
    “I am not bringing Agnes!” said Emmeline. “I’ll go to my room and shin down the drainpipe.”
    Jane Marple had come to a similar conclusion, though Jane had taken the extra precaution of adding a sleeping draught to her parents’ cocoa.
    Reeves coughed. “I foresee a slight problem, sir.”
    “What kind of a problem?” I asked. “You don’t require a chaperone, do you, Reeves?”
    “No, sir. I was thinking that Miss EmmeIine’s presence may be misinterpreted. A young lady standing alone on a street corner for a long period may draw unwelcome attention.”
    “Oh!”
    “We will have to observe together, Emmy,” I said.
    “But that would reduce our numbers from three to two. We need eyes to the north, south and west of Parliament, Reggie.”
    “What we need are the Baker Street Irregulars,” I said. “Does Mayfair have any street urchins, Reeves?”
    “Not that I have noticed, sir.”
    “Pity. Sherlock Holmes swears by them.”
    “I’ll wear a disguise!” said Emmeline. “Can I borrow your beard? And some clothes?”
    ~
    Back at the flat, Reeves helped Emmeline raid my wardrobe, and returned presently with the chosen garments wrapped in a brown paper parcel.
    “If anyone asks,” said Emmeline. “I’ll say it’s clothes for the poor. Are you sure you don’t mind if I take the trousers in a little, Reggie? I could pin them if you’d rather.”
    “No, you keep them. One never knows when a good disguise will come in handy. Are you sure you don’t want the eye patch?”
    “Positive. I’ll need both eyes tonight.”
    I drove Emmeline back to her house and, with a merry wave, swung the Stanley through a quick 180 and steamed back to Charles Street. I found Reeves in the kitchen preparing sandwiches.
    “This red hot poker business, Reeves.”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “I was mulling things over in the car and ... what exactly did Sir Roger do with this poker? Hit the king on the head? Stabbed him in the vitals?”
    “Close to the vitals, sir.”
    “Come on, Reeves. A chap has to know how to defend himself. If I see Sir Roger bounding towards me tonight with a red hot poker in his hand, what should I do?”
    “Refrain from turning your back on him, sir.”
    “Ah, likes to come at you from behind, does he?”
    “One could say that, sir.”
    I stole a sandwich and nibbled pensively. I didn’t like the idea of facing Sir Roger unarmed. Perhaps if I carried a stout walking stick or, even better...
    “I think I may need a service revolver, Reeves.”
    “I would strongly advise against it, sir.”
    “Dr Watson always carries one.”
    “I believe Dr Watson was in the armed forces, sir. He would have received training.”
    “It can’t be that hard to point and shoot.”
    “I am afraid, sir, that I will be unable to assist you in this endeavour as I am restrained by Babbage’s First Law of