Free The Aunt Paradox (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) by Chris Dolley Page B

Edward, but ... is he lying on the floor? He looks rather odd.”
    I handed him the other plates. “How about these? Anyone familiar?”
    HG studied the pictures one by one.
    “Good God!” he said. “That’s The Traveller.”

Ten
    unnamed body number five was The Traveller!
    “Are you sure, sir?” asked Reeves.
    “Absolutely. I’d know his face anywhere. This must have been taken around the time he went missing. He’s the same age. But I’ve never seen him in these clothes. He always wore such distinctive shirts — with no collars whatsoever.”
    “When was the last time you saw the gentleman, sir,” asked Reeves.
    “1894. He just disappeared. Dawson thought he’d—”
    “If I may interrupt, sir,” said Reeves. “Could you tell me the exact date you last saw him?”
    HG scratched his chin and gave both moustaches a tug or two. “It must have been October 17th. That was the day after Beatrice’s birthday. Why? Can I have another look at that photograph?”
    I handed it back to him.
    “Is he dead?” HG asked. “Are they all dead? They’re all lying down.”
    “We’re investigating their murders,” I said. “ Have you ever heard of Algernon Throgmorton-Undershaft, Jasper Evershot, or Percy Baekeland?”
    “No,” said HG.
    “Could they be related to your associates, sir?” asked Reeves.
    HG shrugged. “They could be, but I don’t recognise the names. Look here, I don’t understand. We searched everywhere for reports of The Traveller’s death. Where was he found?”
    “Not far from here, sir. I’m sure Mr Worcester will tell you more, but I can see that he is desirous of an early meeting with Mr Molesworth. Would you be so good, Mr Wells, as to take us to see him? I believe it likely that these murders and the theft of your time machine are inextricably linked.”
    ~
    We followed HG to Bloomsbury where we found Mr Edward Molesworth living in an old Georgian pile that had seen better days. We were shown into a large room that looked more like a laboratory than a drawing room — there were blueprints and maps strewn over desks, books and half assembled machines lying hither and thither. And barely anywhere to sit.
    Mr Molesworth apologised. “I don’t get many visitors,” he said, while clearing spaces for us all.
    “We’re investigating the disappearance of the time machine,” I said. “Do you know a Henry Molesworth?”
    “My father?”
    I handed him the picture. “Is this your father?”
    “Why, yes, that’s him when he was about thirty, but ... what kind of photograph is this? He doesn’t look well.”
    “Early photographs are often like that, sir,” said Reeves. “The length of exposure, the apprehension of the individual.”
    “He appears to be lying on the floor,” said Molesworth.
    “I believe the photographer had unusual ideas about composition, sir.”
    “Oh. Very odd. My father will be here soon if you want to talk to him.”
    “He’s alive?” I asked.
    “Very much so. He should be back any minute. He only stepped out for a short walk. But what’s all this got to do with disappearance of the time machine?”
    I looked at Reeves. How does one broach the subject of a father’s imminent murder?
    “We believe, sir,” said Reeves. “That there may be an attempt underway to change the timeline. Have you ever heard of Algernon Throgmorton-Undershaft, Jasper Evershot, or Percy Baekeland?”
    Molesworth turned to HG. “Is this real?” he asked. “Someone’s stolen the time machine?”
    “They’ve found The Traveller’s body,” said HG.
    “Where?”
    “In Mayfair, sir,” said Reeves. “Did any of those names sound familiar? Relatives of Mr Arbuthnot, Mr Dawson, or Miss Traherne, perhaps?”
    “Never heard of any of them. The only Baekeland I know is Leo, a chemist working on plastics.”
    I handed Molesworth the other photographs.
    “Any of these look familiar?”
    He gave them all a thorough look, resting the longest on The Traveller.
    “So he