The Aunt Paradox (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) by Chris Dolley

something down, or collected a pile of clues — the calling card of the client, if nothing else.
    We searched for a good half-hour, and found nothing. We didn’t even have HG Wells’ calling card.
    “Shouldn’t we have some recollection of this new case, Reeves? Don’t the butterflies rewrite our memories?”
    “It is a branch of science little understood, sir. And there is the added complication of having our memories shielded by the time machine. If you remember, the later Mrs Dean had no memory of Miss Wells whilst the other Mrs Deans did.”
    That was true.
    “More gin, I think, Reeves. My little grey cells need a thorough lubrication.”
    “Very good, sir. There is also the possibility that there is no new case. The fact that the deceased appears to originate from the 1850s suggests the involvement of a time machine. We are in possession of a time machine. Ipso facto there must be a link.”
    I’m often asked, usually at the Sloths after a couple of snifters, ‘what’s the difference between a consulting detective and a policeman?’ I always give the same answer — hunches. We consulting detectives are always having them. Facts are useful, but pedestrian. It’s like playing Snakes and Ladders . Facts take one from square to square, but it’s the ladders — those are the hunches — that really advance a case. I’m not quite sure where the snakes come into it, but I suspect finding a dead body behind the sofa qualifies as landing on one.
    I had just landed upon a ladder.
    “Egad, Reeves, you’ve hit upon the solution!”
    “I have, sir?”
    “It’s obvious really. We have a baffling case. And we have a time machine. Ipso whatso , we beetle into the future to find out how we solved it. It’s like turning to the last page of a detective novel!”
    Reeves aired his disapproving face. “I strongly advise against it, sir.”
    “Why? It’s not the past. There’s no timeline to sabotage.”
    “People living in the future may have a different perspective upon the matter, sir. You’d be tampering with their past.”
    “I’m doing that now Reeves. Without a time machine. Or are you arguing for pre-destination?”
    “No, sir. After witnessing the events of the past day, I cannot believe that any of this was pre-ordained. But neither can I recommend using the time machine for anything other than a dire emergency.”
    “A dead body in next week’s bath counts as the direst of emergencies in my book. Not to mention someone trying to frame me for murder. I can go on my own if the prospect unnerves you. I think I’ve grasped the basics of flying the machine.”
    “That will not be necessary, sir. I will, of course, accompany you.”
    “Stout fellow, Reeves! How far ahead do we need to go? One week? A month?”
    “The case may be a complex one, sir. I would suggest at least a year.”
    “That long?”
    “It would be safer, sir. One would imagine the time machine would require some kind of fuel to power it. A single journey into the future would be safer than having to take several because we’d underestimated the length of time the case had taken to solve.”
    Reeves had raised a worrying point.
    I put my drink down and got up.
    “Have you looked for some kind of steam outlet on the machine?”
    “Yes, sir. There doesn’t appear to be anything obvious. From the sound of the engine, I suspect it to be powered by electrical energy, but I can see no apparent way to charge it.”
    A lesser detective may have balked at the prospect of a one way trip into the future. But Reginald Worcester was not a lesser detective. And he had a sneaking suspicion that Reeves was spinning him a line to put him off using the machine.
    I downed my drink, withdrew four crisp new five pound notes from my writing desk, and grabbed Reeves’s emergency bottle of gin.
    “Sir?” said Reeves, eyeing the bottle.
    “It’s my ‘time traveller’s essential hamper,’ Reeves. Now, dial up 1905, we’re off to the last