The Aunt Paradox (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) (7 page)

unnamed body number five was The Traveller!

“Are you sure, sir?” asked Reeves.

“Absolutely. I’d know his face anywhere. This must have been taken around the time he went missing. He’s the same age. But I’ve never seen him in these clothes. He always wore such distinctive shirts — with no collars whatsoever.”

“When was the last time you saw the gentleman, sir,” asked Reeves.

“1894. He just disappeared. Dawson thought he’d—”

“If I may interrupt, sir,” said Reeves. “Could you tell me the exact date you last saw him?”

HG scratched his chin and gave both moustaches a tug or two. “It must have been October 17th. That was the day after Beatrice’s birthday. Why? Can I have another look at that photograph?”

I handed it back to him.

“Is he dead?” HG asked. “Are they all dead? They’re all lying down.”

“We’re investigating their murders,” I said. “ Have you ever heard of Algernon Throgmorton-Undershaft, Jasper Evershot, or Percy Baekeland?”

“No,” said HG.

“Could they be related to your associates, sir?” asked Reeves.

HG shrugged. “They could be, but I don’t recognise the names. Look here, I don’t understand. We searched everywhere for reports of The Traveller’s death. Where was he found?”

“Not far from here, sir. I’m sure Mr Worcester will tell you more, but I can see that he is desirous of an early meeting with Mr Molesworth. Would you be so good, Mr Wells, as to take us to see him? I believe it likely that these murders and the theft of your time machine are inextricably linked.”

~

We followed HG to Bloomsbury where we found Mr Edward Molesworth living in an old Georgian pile that had seen better days. We were shown into a large room that looked more like a laboratory than a drawing room — there were blueprints and maps strewn over desks, books and half assembled machines lying hither and thither. And barely anywhere to sit.

Mr Molesworth apologised. “I don’t get many visitors,” he said, while clearing spaces for us all.

“We’re investigating the disappearance of the time machine,” I said. “Do you know a Henry Molesworth?”

“My father?”

I handed him the picture. “Is this your father?”

“Why, yes, that’s him when he was about thirty, but ... what kind of photograph is this? He doesn’t look well.”

“Early photographs are often like that, sir,” said Reeves. “The length of exposure, the apprehension of the individual.”

“He appears to be lying on the floor,” said Molesworth.

“I believe the photographer had unusual ideas about composition, sir.”

“Oh. Very odd. My father will be here soon if you want to talk to him.”

“He’s alive?” I asked.

“Very much so. He should be back any minute. He only stepped out for a short walk. But what’s all this got to do with disappearance of the time machine?”

I looked at Reeves. How does one broach the subject of a father’s imminent murder?

“We believe, sir,” said Reeves. “That there may be an attempt underway to change the timeline. Have you ever heard of Algernon Throgmorton-Undershaft, Jasper Evershot, or Percy Baekeland?”

Molesworth turned to HG. “Is this real?” he asked. “Someone’s stolen the time machine?”

“They’ve found The Traveller’s body,” said HG.

“Where?”

“In Mayfair, sir,” said Reeves. “Did any of those names sound familiar? Relatives of Mr Arbuthnot, Mr Dawson, or Miss Traherne, perhaps?”

“Never heard of any of them. The only Baekeland I know is Leo, a chemist working on plastics.”

I handed Molesworth the other photographs.

“Any of these look familiar?”

He gave them all a thorough look, resting the longest on The Traveller.

“So he never went home,” said Molesworth, his face turning grave. “And these others...” He held up the pictures. “They’re dead too, aren’t they? And my father ... is he dead?”

“We believe that to be the intention of the person who stole the time machine, sir,” said Reeves. “But it has not yet come to pass.”

“But these pictures...” said Molesworth. “Where did you get them?”

Everyone looked at me. There comes a time in every case when the detective has to choose whether or not to take people into his confidence. It’s always a tricky calculation, because the murderer is invariably the person one least suspects. I decided to delay the decision a little longer.

“We found them close to The Traveller’s body,” I said. “Along with that list of names. It looks like he was investigating this timeline case and got shot. Then, with his dying breath, he pushed the evidence under the sofa so the murderer wouldn’t find it.”

“He had a picture of his own death?” asked Molesworth, sounding a little awe-struck.

“I assume he’d been to the future and found it, sir,” said Reeves.

“That’s what I’d deduced,” I said. “Either that or India.”

Molesworth checked his pocket watch. “I don’t know what’s keeping my father. He should be back by now. Do you think we should search for him?”

“That will not be necessary, sir,” said Reeves “As you can see by his picture he is a young man when he meets his demise in that timeline. He is quite safe here. It is you, Mr Molesworth, whom Mr Worcester believes to be in the greater danger.”

“I do?” I said.

“Yes, sir, your theory that the murderer is using the time machine to visit the 1850s in order to murder specific persons and thus remove their children from the timeline? Mr Henry Molesworth’s murder is to prevent Mr Edward from being born.”

“My father’s murdered because of me!” said Molesworth.

“That appears to be the murderer’s intention, sir. Tell me, Mr Wells, if Mr Edward had not existed in 1894 would you have chosen someone else to help The Traveller repair his machine?”

“I would,” said HG. “Are you saying those other people are ancestors of Simeon, Nathaniel, and Beatrice?”

“I believe that is what Mr Worcester has deduced. Is it not, sir?”

“Pretty much spot on, Reeves. The way the bodies had been laid out, the uneven wear on the Traveller’s left shoe—”

“Indeed, sir,” said Reeves. “If you, Mr Wells, could compile a list of the people you would have approached, had your original team been unavailable, we may find the murderer’s name upon that list.”

Molesworth helped HG compile a list of the next best candidates in their respective fields. Hertha Ayrton was their choice for electrical engineer, Thomas Dashwood for mechanical engineer, Hector Munro Macdonald for mathematician, and Alfred Sackville-Warrender beat off the claims of James Macalister for the physicist spot.

“This is our fault, Bertie,” said Molesworth. “If we hadn’t been so determined to get that fuel cell working. It’s made the machine
infinitel
y more powerful now.”

“It’s not anyone’s fault, Edward,” said HG. “Whoever stole the machine could have taken the old machine into the future and had a fuel cell fitted. What I can’t understand is how they stole it in the first place.”

“We should have destroyed the machine the moment The Traveller disappeared,” said Molesworth. “We knew the dangers of changing the timeline. The Traveller told us!”

“But we were using it for the advancement of knowledge, Edward! We recovered priceless books from monasteries before they were burned. And we
never
interfered with history. We only took what was about to be destroyed, and we
observed
rather than participated.”

“Do you think this could be retribution?” asked Molesworth.

“Retribution for what?” said HG.

Molesworth sighed, and slowly shook his head.

“I took the machine to the future to perfect the fuel cell.”

“What are you talking about?” said HG.

“Mr Worcester, I think
I
may be the cause of these murders,
and
the disappearance of the time machine.”

~

I listened as Molesworth spilled all.

“You see,” he said. “The original time machine was powered by a fuel cell — a hydrogen fuel cell — but it was damaged when the time machine malfunctioned and crashed, stranding The Traveller. We didn’t have the knowledge or the wherewithal to repair the fuel cell so, with The Traveller’s help, we designed an electrical battery.

“The battery was barely able to power the machine, and it drained too quickly. I thought if I studied the remains of the broken fuel cell I might be able to figure out how it worked and repair it. And, after several years of trying, I almost did. I was
so
close. I was sure it was only a matter of time.

“Then, two years ago, I decided to take the time machine into the future. I told myself it was only to confirm my theories, that I was merely shortening the development time of an invention that I would have perfected anyway... But now I see that I was deluding myself. I was stealing someone else’s idea. The Molesworth Hydrogen Fuel Cell should have been called the Changguk Hydrogen Fuel Cell. They invented it. I merely rebuilt it, and attached my name to it.”

As confessions went, this wasn’t one of the best. Personally, I prefer the ones that begin, ‘Fair cop, guv. You’ve got me banged to rights and no mistake,’ and then swiftly proceed to either ‘I dun it’ or ‘X dun it’ — where X is the name of the person one least suspects.

“Are you saying this Chang Duck has come back into the past to get revenge for you stealing his idea?” I asked.

“I think it’s bigger than that,” said Molesworth. “I think it’s the time police.”

Now that was more like it. He may have taken his time, but as far as ‘least likely suspects’ went, he’d delivered.

“Time police?” I said.

“It’s something Dawson came up with,” said HG. “He thought The Traveller might be a fugitive, and the time police had caught up with him and snatched him back. Which was why we couldn’t find him, and why he’d left the time machine behind.”

“It makes sense now,” said Molesworth. “They captured The Traveller, but he wouldn’t tell them where he’d hidden the time machine. Then I start manufacturing the Molesworth Hydrogen Fuel Cell and they can’t help but notice the change in the timeline.”

He threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “And so they come back in time, retrieve the time machine, and set about removing everyone associated with it from history. It’s all my fault!”

“You didn’t do it intentionally,” said HG. “Or for personal gain. You told me yourself you were placing all the profits from the fuel cell into a trust for the poor.”

It was then that something rummy happened. One second I was there, the next, I wasn’t. A cold breeze was blowing in my face, and suddenly I had the strangest feeling.

Reeves and I were standing outside a church. How I came to be there, I had no idea. My memory was decidedly hazy.

“What are we doing here, Reeves?” I said. “I could have sworn I was sitting in front of a fire talking to someone. Moley? Ratty? Someone like that.”

“Molesworth, sir. I believe someone has changed the timeline.”

“How? We have the time machine, don’t we?”

“I think it would be wise to return to the flat immediately, sir.”

couldn’t find the Stanley, so we hailed a cab and hurried back to the flat. The front door was ajar, and the jamb was splintered where the lock had been forced. I girded the Worcester loins. I couldn’t hear anything from inside, but who knew what we’d find? A carpetful of dead bodies, or the time police lying in wait?

Reeves went in first. I followed at a discrete distance. I couldn’t see any dead bodies in the sitting room. And no sign of the room being turned over either. Everything was in its place, just as we’d left it. I checked behind the sofa to make sure. All clear there too.

Momentarily, Reeves appeared in the doorway. “The time machine is gone, sir. I’ve checked all the rooms. Nothing else appears to be missing. Or, indeed, added.”

The latter was a relief. I didn’t think my constitution was up to three police raids in a single morning.

Reeves pulled down a copy
Who’s Who
from the bookcase and flicked through the pages.

“There is no mention of Mr Edward Molesworth, sir, and the Henry Molesworth who had previously taken a second wife in 1889 is now listed as ‘missing believed run over by a steam train’ in 1853.”

My memory of events was still rather hazy. Bits were coming back, but I deduced my gin levels were dangerously low.

“An emergency cocktail, Reeves, and don’t spare the gin.”

Two glasses later I was feeling pretty braced and ready to face the worst.

“Will the Time Police write
us
out of history, do you think?”

“I am not convinced there
is
a temporal constabulary, sir. The door, you will notice, has been broken open.”

“Your point, Reeves?”

“A temporal constabulary would not
need
to break open the door, sir. They would fly in and materialise, as we have done several times.”

“Ah, but they didn’t have the time machine, did they? That’s why they had to break in and steal it.”

“One would imagine, sir, that the temporal constabulary would have
several
time machines. How else would they arrive here from the future?”

Was there anything that escaped this steam-powered marvel?

“So I’m not going to be orphaned by a steam train?”

“No, sir. I fear Parkhurst prison to be your more likely danger.”

I leaned back in my chair and sucked on a contemplative olive.

“This is all very unsporting, don’t you think, Reeves? Attacking a chap via his relatives, nipping into the future to frame him for murder? It’s not British. Any of your suspects foreign?”

“No, sir.”

“Do we have any pictures of them? Inspector Lupin swears you can tell a murderer by the shape of his ears.”

There were no pictures, and I had growing doubts about Reeves’s theory too. The more I thought about it, the more it had the feel of something Inspector Lestrade would have come up with. Perfectly sound, but too methodical. Where was the mysterious one-legged stranger? Where was the orang-utan?

The answer had to be connected with the time machine, that was beyond doubt, but I couldn’t see why someone in the second string team would want to bump off the entire first team. Although — now I thought about it — it
wasn’t
the entire first team, was it?

We had ignored the obvious!

“I have it Reeves!” I said, nearly spilling my drink in the excitement. “It’s just as Sherlock Holmes says, ‘When you’ve eliminated the people with motives, the only people left — especially if they appear as innocent as a new-born lamb — have to be the murderer!’”

“I think Mr Holmes may have phrased that somewhat differently, sir.”

“A word here, a word there, maybe, but the gist is the same, Reeves. It’s always the person one least suspects. And who is that?”

“I hesitate to answer, sir.”

“Come on, Reeves! It’s obvious. Herbert George Wells! He’s bumping off everyone else with access to the time machine so he can have it for himself.”

“I think it unlikely, sir. It was Mr Wells who engaged us to investigate the case.”

“Exactly! To throw suspicion away from himself. He knew once all his associates started disappearing that suspicion would fall on him, so he came up with a plan. I rather suspect he egged on his Aunt Charlotte too. ‘Here you are, Aunt C, nip back in time and bring back a score of your younger selves.’”

“An interesting theory, sir. But Mr Wells was with us at Mr Molesworth’s house at the moment the timeline changed.”

“If you can have twenty-nine Aunt Charlottes, Reeves, I’m pretty sure you can have two HG Wells. Maybe Gertie is in it with him! And I wouldn’t rule out the butterflies.”

~

Reeves was not buying the HG Wells theory.

“Mr Wells has no motive, sir. The time machine has been in his possession since 1894. He can use it whenever he wants. Why would he now be desirous of removing his associates from history?”

Reeves just did not understand that ‘least likely suspect’ trumped ‘motive’ every day of the week.

I was about to tell him when I was struck by one of the brainiest notions I’d ever had. I’m not sure if it was one of those ladders, or perhaps the fish I’d consumed for lunch, but there it was — like the Sword dangling at the Gates of Damocles.

“So, Mr Wells has no motive, says you?” I said, drawing myself up.

“Not that I can discern, sir.”

“Well, how about this. What if The Traveller was going to oil back into the future with his time machine? He says, ‘What ho, Bertie. I’m off now. Thanks for all the help, what?’ and offers his hand for the parting shake... And Bertie cuts up rough. He wants the machine for his own, so he shoots him. Bertie then dumps the body in the future and denies all to his friends. All’s well for ten years, until Moley perfects his fuel cell. With me so far?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. With this fuel cell onboard they can now take the time machine for daily spins. And one of the chaps — it might be Moley, it might be one of the others — says, ‘How about taking the time machine back to 1894 and finding out what happened to The Traveller?’ Bertie panics and starts bumping them all off.”

Sherlock Holmes after a fish supper could not have come up with anything more brilliant. Even Reeves was impressed (see eyebrows).

“That
would
be a motive, sir. But why engage our services?”

“Because his Aunt Charlotte stole the machine before he could bump them all off! Prepare the Stanley, Reeves. It’s time to beard Bertie in his den.”

“Before we undertake anything precipitous, sir, I suggest we ascertain who the descendants of Algernon Throgmorton-Undershaft, Jasper Evershot, and Percy Baekeland are. A detour via the British Library, or, perhaps, the Royal Society to ascertain the forebears of Mr Arbuthnot, Mr Dawson, and Miss Traherne...?”

I had to be firm.

“Reeves, now is not the time for ascertaining or deliberating. It is a time for action, while we’re still here with a full set of antecedents. As the bard says, ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all is bound in shallows and porpentines.”

“Miseries, sir.”

“What?”

“Shallows and miseries, sir. The fretful porpentine belongs to Hamlet.”

“Hamlet has a pet porpentine? I don’t recall an aquatic scene in Hamlet.”

“I shall prepare the Stanley, sir.”

~

While Reeves topped up the Stanley’s water tank, I looked up HG’s address in
Who’s Who
. It was listed as 13 Hanover Terrace, Regent’s Park. Not far at all. A little over a mile.

Before I joined Reeves, I slipped into my bedroom and retrieved my service revolver. If HG Wells was going to be armed, then so was I. I might not have any bullets for it — Reeves keeps on hiding them — but I could still point it menacingly.

Off I ran to the Stanley and leaped aboard.

“Next stop, Hanover Terrace, Reeves.”

I drove the Stanley as fast as the traffic would allow, taking the odd corner on two wheels.

“A two-pronged attack, I think, Reeves. You locate the time machine — it’ll probably be locked in his cellar — while I keep HG busy above stairs. As soon as you find it, give me the nod, and we’ll confront him. ‘Ho!’ we will say. ‘Someone’s stolen your time machine, have they? Well, what’s it doing in your cellar?’ He will fold, Reeves. And if he doesn’t, I have my service revolver handy.”

“Stop the car, sir,” said Reeves.

“What? You object to my plan?”

“No, sir. It’s that advertising hoarding. The one over there above the tea shop.”

I swung the Worcester eyes shopwards and almost lost control of the Stanley, such was my shock.

There was a large poster advertising
Dawson’s Hydrogen Fuel Cell. The future at a price you can afford!