Read Online Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) by Chris Dolley - Free Book Online

will be with us shortly.”
    I looked over Reeves’s shoulder and, sure enough, the bearded form of Rameses Blenkinsop was hurrying towards us.
    As for Scrottleton-Ffoukes, he disappeared around the corner into Great Scott Street. Reeves and I waited for a carriage to pass then crossed the road and ankled it down to the corner, where we paused. One doesn’t want to get too close to one’s quarry as quarries have a habit of turning round at inconvenient moments. We waited a few seconds more, then strolled nonchalantly around the corner.
    The street was empty. There was not even the sound of footsteps — except from behind as Rameses Blenkinsop joined the party.
    “Where is he?” she whispered.
    There were only two places he could be. He couldn’t have legged it all the way down to Smith Street — it was too far and we would have heard him running. He’d either turned into Little Scott Street, or entered one of the buildings.
    We tried Little Scott Street first, peeking around the corner. It was a cul-de-sac. And empty.
    He must have oiled into one of the buildings. But which one? Not one of them had a light on.
    We split up and scoured the Scott Streets, both great and small. We listened at keyholes. We tried doors. But not a sound could be heard from within, and not a single door was unlocked.
    “Do you think he realised he was being followed?” asked Emmeline.
    I shrugged. I didn’t think he had but ... for someone to disappear so swiftly and with so little trace...
    “There is the possibility, sir, that the gentleman may not be in any of the buildings.”
    “You have an idea, Reeves?”
    “I did notice there was a manhole cover as we turned into Great Smith Street, sir.”
    The sewers!
    ~
    I wasn’t exactly dressed for the sewers and, truth to tell, I’m not sure what the correct attire would be, but we Worcesters are made of stern stuff. If a trail leads into a dark, dank sewer, we follow.
    Reeves raised the square manhole cover and all three of us peered inside. A metal ladder descended into the darkness. How far down it went I couldn’t see.
    “Might I suggest, sir, that we avail ourselves of one of the oil lamps from the Stanley?”
    I legged it back to the Stanley and drove it back at speed. Detaching one of the lamps was but the work of a moment. I handed it to Reeves. “Do you think we need one each?” I asked.
    “There’s only two,” said Emmeline. “There are three of us.”
    “You’re not going down the sewers, Emmy.”
    “Why not?” said Emmeline, her beard bristling.
    “Because we need someone on the outside,” I said. “In case something happens to us.”
    “If we don’t return within the hour, miss,” said Reeves. “We will need someone to call the police.”
    “They won’t believe me!” said Emmy.
    “You’ll think of something,” I said.
    Down into the depths of sewerdom we went. I don’t know if you’ve ever been inside a sewer, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Ours, according to Reeves, was a side channel and thankfully dry. It was about six feet high and three feet wide with a curved brick-built floor and ceiling. It wasn’t as foul smelling as I’d feared, but it wasn’t something I’d bottle.
    After ten yards this side channel joined up with a larger sewer which Reeves had the notion might be the remains of the old Tyburn river.
    “It was diverted in the Middle Ages, sir. It’s original course ran—”
    I had to interrupt. There are times — I’m not sure when, but I’m sure there are — when a guided tour of historic London sewers might be just the ticket, but now was not one of them.
    “Which way, Reeves? Left or right?”
    “Left, sir. That will take us to Parliament Square.”
    This new sewer was about twenty feet across and fifteen feet high with a small channel in the centre where the remains of the Tyburn flowed murkily.
    Off we toddled along its left bank, pausing every now and again to turn the wick of our lamps low and listen. Not a sausage.