Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF

cough, so I raised a palm to stop him.
    “Sherlock Holmes would agree with me, Reeves. What kind of chap leaves a note skewered to another chap’s door with a poker?”
    No one could answer.
    “Your common or garden criminal would wrap the note around a brick and toss it through the window. Or send a threatening telegram. Or nail the note to the door. But who uses a poker? It’s not the first thing that springs to mind. Which means...” I paused for effect. “The poker has to be a clue. And only criminal masterminds leave clues on purpose. Everyone else tries their darndest not to leave clues. Ipso facto we’re being warned off by a Moriarty of the underworld.”
    “Whose name begins with M,” said Emmeline. “Oh! You don’t think...”
    I hadn’t until then. Could Moriarty have made it back alive from the Reichenbach Falls? Or been resurrected in orange?
    Reeves coughed.
    “It is widely held, sir, that Professor Moriarty is a fictional character.”
    “So he’d want us to believe,” I said. “Next you’ll be telling me that Sherlock Holmes is a figment of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s imagination.”
    Reeves and Emmeline exchanged glances. One could tell they didn’t have an answer.
    ~
    We decided to take the note and the poker upstairs for further investigation. As Reeves was extracting the poker from the door, he noticed the oddest thing. The wood around the hole the poker had made was singed. And the blackened marks on the paper were scorch marks. The tip of the poker must have been hot when it was thrust into the door!
    Curiouser and curiouser. Who walks around London with a hot poker other than a criminal mastermind?
    I quizzed Emmeline while Reeves made breakfast.
    “Time to come clean, Emmy. Are you on the run or not? I’m buying a false beard and an eye patch this morning. I can easily buy two.”
    “That’s very decent of you, Reggie, but I’m not on the run. The magistrate refused to imprison us.”
    “Well, that’s a stroke of a luck.”
    “No, it isn’t! You weren’t there, Reggie. He treated us like children. He told us to go home to our husbands and fathers and reflect long and hard upon our futures.”
    “Have you reflected?”
    “I have. Then I looked up the magistrate in Who’s Who and found out where he lived.”
    This did not bode well.
    “I was going to chain myself to his railings this morning but someone stole my chain!”
    “No they didn’t. I saw it lying by the gate and rescued it for you. It’s in the hall closet. Your best padlock too.”
    “Oh, Reggie!”
    Nothing says love more than twenty feet of quarter-inch Tiffany chain.
    ~
    After breakfast, feeling full of vim and kippers, I pulled down a copy of Who’s Who from the bookshelf and began looking for M’s.
    Ten minutes later I’d discovered that Scrottleton-Ffoukes was an Edward George and Snuggles wasn’t illustrious enough to even rate a mention.
    “Is there a Burke’s Book of Mad Scientists , Reeves?” I asked as the giant brain entered the room.
    “Surprisingly not, sir.”
    “He might be in a Kelly’s Directory,” said Emmeline. “Do you have any?”
    “No, miss. But my inquiries at the newsagents led me to this.” He held up a slim publication I didn’t recognise. “ Old Todger’s Almanac , sir. A list of practitioners of the Promethean arts can be found at the back.”
    “It can? Is Snuggles in there?” I asked.
    “He is, sir. A Mr Felix Snuggles.”
    “Descended from a long line of cat lovers, do you think?”
    “The thought had crossed my mind, sir.”
    “Does he have a brother called Tibbles?” asked Emmeline.
    “And a sister called Fluffy!” I added.
    “Quite,” said Reeves. “Shall I prepare the Stanley, sir? I imagine you will wish to visit Fortnum’s Promethean Essentials department presently.”
    “Why would I do that?”
    “To obtain a list of customers who have bought jars of ReVitaCorpse, sir.”
    “Oh, that! No, too obvious, Reeves. You have to remember we’re