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

No distant light up ahead from a flickering lamp, nor the echo of foot upon brick.
    Until...
    “I believe I see a light, sir,” whispered Reeves.
    “Where?” I couldn’t see a thing.
    “Halfway up the far wall of that side channel, sir.”
    I still couldn’t see a thing. I could barely make out the opening of the side channel. But then I didn’t have Reeves’s augmented sight.
    We crossed the once mighty Tyburn, jumping the three-foot channel, and made our way up some rough steps to Reeves’s side channel. I still couldn’t see a light. The passage didn’t go that far back and the brick walls beyond the entrance were old and braced by timber supports.
    Reeves moved his lamp away from the entrance and motioned for me to do the same. As the darkness descended I saw the faintest of flickers coming from the old brick wall.
    ~
    The light vanished. I thought I heard something — footsteps or maybe the scrape of boot dragging across a floor. But I may have been mistaken.
    We waited an age before Reeves was sure it was safe, then we turned up our wicks and gave the wall a sleuthing once-over. It was as I expected. A piece of mortar had become dislodged and there was a small hole in the brick wall. Reeves used his fingers to pull a little more mortar out, then managed to extract an entire brick.
    He held up his lamp to the hole and looked through.
    “It does look like an ancient tunnel, sir,” he whispered.
    It didn’t take long to remove the other bricks. The mortar was old and crumbled as soon as any pressure was exerted upon it. We soon had a hole a chap could step through without bending his back in two.
    “Do you have your service revolver, sir?” whispered Reeves.
    I most certainly did. I took it out and gave it a good waggle.
    “Before we go any farther, Reeves, there’s something I need to know. We’re both men of the world and all that. So, tell me, how exactly did Edward II die? I have a feeling you’ve been holding something back.”
    “Sir?”
    “No sirring, Reeves. I want the truth.”
    “Very good, sir. Edward II succumbed to an inflammation of the bowels.”
    “What? I thought you said he was killed with a red hot poker.”
    “The poker was the source of the inflammation, sir.”
    “Oh. Oh! ”
    It was a subdued Reginald Worcester who stepped gingerly into the ancient tunnel. Would Sir Roger recognise a service revolver if I pointed it at him? Would he care?
    The tunnel didn’t look that safe either. The walls and floor were earthen, braced at intervals by timber supports. Irregular planks formed a makeshift ceiling. And the floor was dotted with mounds of earth where the ceiling had partially collapsed, or soil had seeped through the joins.
    “Which way to the Houses of P, Reeves?” I whispered.
    “I would counsel we went in the other direction, sir.”
    “Why?”
    “So that we can locate the entrance to the tunnel, sir, and inform the police.”
    Exiting the tunnel had the ring of a sound plan to me.
    Reeves took the lead, holding his lamp out before him and occasionally having to stoop to avoid a dislodged plank hanging down from the roof. I followed, keeping a weather eye to the rear in case Sir Roger crept up behind us.
    Reeves suddenly stopped without warning and I bumped into him.
    “What is it?” I whispered.
    “It’s Mr Snuggles, sir,” said Reeves. “He’s pointing a revolver at us.”
    “What?” I poked my head over Reeves’s shoulder and, sure enough, there he was — Snuggles — a lamp in one hand and a revolver in the other. And he wasn’t alone. There was a hooded figure behind him. A hooded figure with something long and pokery in his right hand!
    “How did you get in here?” shouted Snuggles.
    “Never you mind,” I said, levelling the service revolver at him. “Put the weapon down, Snuggles. The game is up.”
    “The service revolver is empty,” announced Reeves. “Mr Worcester has no bullets.”

Seven
    eeves!” I was shocked.
    “I’m sorry, sir,