Free Reggiecide (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) by Chris Dolley

distinction—”
    “Quite,” interrupted Snuggles. “Ah, here’s Guy. Reeves, Sir Roger, help Guy carry the rest of the explosives. I’ll guard these two.”
    As I watched my former valet disappear up the tunnel, I wondered if, perhaps, he would come to his senses. Maybe an erring subroutine had temporarily taken over the giant brain and turned him into an anarchist. Surely the old Reeves was in there somewhere, and one look at those crates of explosives would bring him back.
    A minute later Reeves did return, but not to his senses. He marched past me, without looking my way once, carrying a crate of dynamite. Ahead of him lurched Guy, who didn’t look at all steady on his feet. And behind him loped the now pokerless Sir Roger. Only Sir Roger acknowledged my existence — with a demented leer — and I rather wished he hadn’t.
    Back and forth the three of them went. Scrottleton-Ffoukes appeared equally peeved with his ancient a. for every time Guy passed he remonstrated with him. This is not like you, Guido. You’re a Catholic, not an anarchist. And innocent. I’ll help you clear your name!
    Guy didn’t reply once. I wasn’t sure if he even understood what was being said to him. He had a glassy-eyed look as if he’d had one too many mace blows to the side of the helmet.
    After twelve or so trips back and forth, Reeves announced that they were carrying the last three boxes. Snuggles then took a timing device from his pocket, set the clock, and placed it carefully in Guy’s box.
    “Be careful with this one, lads,” he said. “Place it as close to the middle as you can.”
    A minute later the trio returned.
    “We’re going to take our leave now, gentleman,” said Snuggles. “But don’t worry. You two are going to be heroes of the revolution. They’ll sing songs about you.”
    I expected a diabolical laugh, but Snuggles was a more of a smirker. I waited for the four of them to walk out of earshot before turning to Mr S-F to give him the good news.
    “Don’t worry. I have an associate outside with instructions to call the police if I don’t return within the hour. And that hour’s nearly up.”
    ~
    I don’t know if time travels slower in the dark but it certainly felt like hours had passed, and still we hadn’t been rescued!
    “Are you sure your associate is trustworthy?” asked Mr S-F. “Your other one wasn’t.”
    His words stung, but when it comes to trustworthiness and a determination to succeed, Emmeline Dreadnought was second to none. Her track record with the constabulary may not be of the highest, and she was wearing a full beard, but I had every confidence.
    An aeon passed. Several Ice Ages came and went. I’m sure I heard the plaintive trumpet of at least one woolly mammoth. And my confidence in E. Dreadnought started to wane. What if Snuggles had her? Reeves was certain to mention her.
    Then, at my darkest hour — well a few minutes after, as my darkest hour involved a large beetle running up my trouser leg — I saw a faint light in the distance. Someone was coming!
    “We’re here!” I shouted.
    No answering call came.
    “Hello!” I shouted.
    “Hello!” shouted Scrottleton-Ffoukes.
    Still no answering call. But the light was getting brighter.
    Then out of the gloom came ... Reeves.
    “I’ve come to rescue you, sirs,” he said.
    “Come to your senses at last, have you?” I said bitingly.
    He didn’t say a word. I couldn’t see it on his face but I suspected he was feeling not a little contrite and was too embarrassed to speak.
    “Have you informed the police yet?” I asked.
    “No, sir.”
    “Why ever not?”
    “It’s a question of time, sir. Mr Snuggles and his associates have been watching me since last night. I have only this minute been able to evade them, using the crowds around Parliament to make good my escape. Come, sirs. The bomb will go off at any minute.”
    “What about Emmeline? Have you seen her?”
    “No, sir. I really think we should be