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

Automata — that an automaton may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow one to come to harm.”
    “But that’s why I need the revolver, Reeves. To stop me from coming to harm.”
    “I was thinking more of the innocent bystanders who might be in the vicinity whilst you were protecting yourself with the aforementioned weapon, sir. Revolvers are wont to be unpredictable in excitable hands.”
    “I wouldn’t have it loaded, Reeves. I’m not going to shoot people. I’m going to point it at them and make them think I’m going to shoot.”
    “That would be acceptable, sir.”
    “Good. Do they come in different sizes, Reeves? I’d like one in small, if possible. With a light blue handle to match my new spats.”
    “I’ll do my best, sir.”
    ~
    I hadn’t appreciated just how large and heavy a service revolver was.
    “Was this the smallest they had?” I asked Reeves on his return from Fortnum’s Arms and the Gentleman Department.
    “I was of the opinion, sir, that a larger weapon would be necessary to ensure it was seen. Unless you were standing under a street light I fear a smaller pistol would go unnoticed and, ergo, negate its value as a deterrent.”
    As ever the logic of the giant brain could not be faulted, though I think a smaller revolver in bright yellow would have served equally well.
    At half past nine, with both Reeves and the Stanley up to pressure, we set off. Emmeline was waiting for us by Parliament Gate and I must say she looked surprisingly attractive for a man with an eighteen-inch beard.
    “What ho, Emmy,” I said as I jumped down from the Stanley.
    “I’m not Emmy,” said a husky voice from somewhere deep within the beard. “Tonight I’m Rameses Blenkinsop.”
    “Right ho,” I said. One has to marvel at the size and creativity of the Blenkinsop clan. “Did you have any trouble exiting Dreadnought towers, Rameses?”
    “Only when I kept trapping my beard climbing down the drainpipe. I think I’ll take it off when I climb back in.”
    I nodded sagely. It’s well known in sleuthing circles that you don’t find many full-bearded cat burglars.
    We each reprised our afternoon roles, again with no luck and this time there was a particularly chilly wind coming off the river. I could have done with a beard myself.
    We met up at ten and again at eleven, whereupon we adjourned to the Abingdon Hotel for a bracing pot of hot tea.
    “What if we never see anyone?” asked Rameses née Emmeline. “How long do we wait?”
    It’s a consulting detective’s lot to keep up the spirits of his team during low times. A cheery word, a slap on the back, a ‘once more unto the stakeout, dear friends’ type of speech. I rather favoured the idea of a stirring song but Reeves was against it — something about Babbage again. I think Babbage must have been a stern and uncompromising fellow.
    Out we went again, but this time, following the adage that a change is as good as a rest, we swapped our patrol areas. I did one spell around Parliament Square and then toddled down to Millbank. The streets were pretty empty by this time and an icy mist had begun to drift in from the river. That’s when I saw Scrottleton-Ffoukes striding along the pavement on the opposite side of the road. I pulled up my collar and turned away.
    ~
    As he was coming from Parliament Square there was a good chance that Reeves, or even Emmeline, would have spotted him earlier and were in hot pursuit. But I didn’t dare turn around to look. Instead I decided to kneel down and re-tie my shoelace in case Mr S-F looked my way and wondered what that chap lurking in the shadows was up to.
    He passed by. I waited until he was twenty yards away, then turned. And found Reeves looming over me. A situation that caused me to lose my balance and teeter somewhat before the steadying hand of the steam-powered valet fastened upon my shoulders and helped me to my feet.
    “I signalled to Mr Blenkinsop earlier, sir,” he whispered. “He