What Ho, Automaton! by Chris Dolley

Author:Chris Dolley
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Jeeves, Humour, Steampunk, Worcester, Fiction, Science Fiction, Victorian, Wodehouse, Wooster, Zeppelins, Time Travel
ISBN: 9781611380606
Publisher: Book View Cafe
Published: 2011-04-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

spent a disturbed night tossing and turning. I should never have involved Emmeline. She might be dead. She might be up a tree, held hostage by an enraged orang-utan. Or she might have chained herself to said tree. Headstrong girls did not make good prisoners.

Maybe I should involve the police. Reeves’s giant brain thought so. But consulting detectives were universally scathing in their opinions of the police when it came to solving really knotty cases. And this case had to be the knottiest. Even Sherlock Holmes would have worn out a pipe.

I awoke with a single purpose – to find Emmeline and free the girls before another day passed. I’d double my fish intake and even get up early for breakfast.

By the second kipper my plan was hatched.

“Is there a ball tonight?” I asked Reeves as he poured my second cup of Earl Grey.

“The Royal Caledonian, sir. I have laid out your kilt.”

I took a deep breath. Some conversations can turn dashed awkward, and I was about to ask Reeves to perform a task that few employers request of their manservants.

“Talking of kilts, Reeves. I have decided upon a bold plan of action for tonight.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Indeed, Reeves. I think the situation calls for a bold plan and, as bold plans go, this one’s up there with the boldest. Sacrifices, Reeves, have to be made and the unthinkable has to be thought. Don’t you agree?”

“Possibly, sir.” I could tell Reeves’s disapproving face was only a muscle twitch away. I pressed on.

“What do hunters use, Reeves, when they’re out to catch some dashed cunning prey?”

“Guns, sir?”

“No, not guns, Reeves. Bait. That’s what they use. They lay a trap.”

“Are you proposing we use a young lady as bait at the ball tonight?”

“No, Reeves. We’ve already lost Miss Dreadnought. I’m not going to risk losing another. You’ll have to do it.”

The muscle twitched and there it was – the disapproving face. “I think not, sir.”

“But it’s the obvious plan, Reeves. Sherlock’s always donning disguises. It’s part of the consulting detective’s code – always be prepared to dress up. I can borrow clothes and theatrical make-up from the Drones. We have an astonishing array of women’s clothing for the larger figure. Our Dress-up Friday sessions are the talk of the town.”

“It will not work, sir.”

“Why ever not?”

“I am unable to dance, sir. A debutante who cannot dance will not be satisfactory bait.”

“Can’t you learn? I could teach you the steps.”

“Alas, sir, it is not the steps that are the problem, it is my gyroscopes. One fast spin and I wouldn’t be able to perambulate straight for a week.”

This cast one of those spanner thingummies into the works. “You can’t spin at all?”

“No, sir. It would disorientate me. I fear I would pass out.”

I tilted my head to one side and had a good ponder. This meant a substantial change to my plan. I couldn’t risk asking a real debutante to help out. She’d construe my request as a proposal – spotting a troth somewhere between the lines and assuming it came ready-plighted.

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