What Ho, Automaton

Steampunk, Mystery, Zeppelins, Aunts, Humour. A steam-powered Wodehouse pastiche.

What Ho, Automaton

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Release Date : October 17, 2017

ISBN Number : 978-1-61138-060-6

$2.99

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Description

Reeves and Worcester Steampunk Mysteries #1

What Ho, Automaton! chronicles the adventures of Reggie Worcester, gentleman consulting detective, and his automaton valet, Reeves. The book contains two stories set in an alternative 1903 where an augmented Queen Victoria is still on the throne and automata are a common sight below stairs.

Steampunk, Mystery, Zeppelins, Aunts, Humour.

A steam-powered Wodehouse pastiche.

REVIEWS AND AWARDS

WSFA Award finalist

“A fun blend of P.G. Wodehouse, steampunk and a touch of Sherlock Holmes. Dolley is a master at capturing and blending all these elements. More than fascinating, this work is also rip-roaring fun!”
-SF Revu

____

Chris Dolley hit the headlines in 1974 when he was tasked with publicising Plymouth Rag Week. Some people might have arranged an interview with the local paper. Chris invaded the country next door, created the Free Cornish Army and persuaded the UK media that Cornwall had declared independence. This was later written up in Punch. As he told journalists at the time, ‘it was only a small country and I did give it back.’

Now he and his wife live in France. They grow their own food and solve their own crimes. The latter out of necessity after Chris’s identity was stolen along with their life savings. Abandoned by the police forces of four countries who all insisted the crime originated in someone else’s jurisdiction, he had to solve the crime himself. Which he did, driving back and forth across the Pyrenees, tracking down bank accounts and interviewing bar staff. The book, French Fried, is now an international bestseller.

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think aunts must have come into being on the seventh day when God took his eye off the ball. Let there be light — no quibbles there. Let there be small furry animals — we Worcesters have always been strong supporters of our fluffier friends. But let there be aunts? I think not. They interfere and have ‘opinions’ which take the form of holy writ. I strongly suspect that Hannibal had an aunt, one who buttonholed him as he was about to set sail for Rome. “Hannibal!” she would have cried. “If you’re off to Rome, you must visit your cousin in the Alps. And take those elephants with you. They’re ruining my prize dahlias.”

Which was why one Reginald Worcester, put-upon sap of this parish, was staring into a stiff drink at the Sloths Club contemplating the inequities of Creation. Not because of elephants — that would have been easy — but because his Aunt Bertha had instructed him to leave immediately for Crandle Castle and extricate his cousin Herbert from an unsuitable engagement.

“Is there any other kind?” I’d asked.

Never attempt repartee with an aunt.

I tried to explain that I was persona non grata at Crandle, having once been engaged to Georgiana Throstlecoombe — until the unfortunate incident with the Pomeranian — and that the young lady in question was certain to be at Crandle and would set the dogs — especially the Pomeranians, who have long memories — upon me the moment I crossed the horizon.

Aunts are impervious to both Latin and Pomeranians.

“Why the long face, Reggie?”

I was snapped back to the present by the arrival of one Lancelot Trussington-Thripp.

“What ho, Stiffy,” I said, and then proceeded to give him the low-down on the aunt diktat.

“What you need is a Reeves,” said Stiffy.

“A Reeves?”

“Yes, we’ve just found one. He was in a cupboard in the attic.”

“Cupboard in the attic?”

My mind boggled on two counts, one, that the club had an attic and, two, that there was a Reeves living up there.

“He must have been there for years,” said Stiffy. “He was covered in dust.”

My mind reached new heights of boggledom. “Who, or what, is a Reeves?”

“A dashed brainy automaton,” said Stiffy, visibly getting excited and shuffling closer. “He’s dressed like a fairground fortune-teller and knows absolutely everything. His brain is positively immense. Barmy’s trying to get him to tell our fortunes.”

“Ha!” I said. “Some of us know our fortunes only too well and would rather not be reminded of them.”

“Come on, Reggie. Give it a try. He really does know everything. If there’s a way to get out of your Crandle entanglement, Reeves’ll know.”

I relented. The Worcesters have always had a soft spot for the outsider, and this plan rated a good 100-1 in anyone’s form book.

I followed Stiffy to the billiard room where an even more excited gaggle of fellow Sloths were crowded around the far table. No one noticed our arrival. All heads were turned to the figure seated in a chair, which someone had placed upon the billiard table.

Had everyone lost their senses? A chair leg could rip the green baize!

As for the fortune-telling automaton chappie: never had I seen such a morose cove, his giant head topped with a pink turban and his shoulders swathed in flowing robes of pink and orange hues. Machine or not, I felt for the poor blighter. I’d had similar experiences in my childhood — being forced to sit still in the nursery while my older sister, the theatrically inclined Lady Julia, proceeded to dress me up like a prize peacock.

“I say,” shouted Stiffy, pushing himself to the head of the throng. “Step aside, Humpy, there’s a good chap. This is an emergency. Reggie has aunt trouble.”

Like the Red Sea, when confronted by Moses holding a note from his mother’s sister, the throng parted.

“Come along, Reggie,” said Stiffy, beckoning. “Tell all to Reeves.”

I recounted my sorry tale, omitting not a single Pomeranian. The Reeves listened intently, nodding his head in the places a living, breathing son of Adam would have felt like inclining his noggin too. As machines went, this Reeves was of the first rank. One could entirely believe he was human.

“Well?” said Stiffy when I’d finished. “Can you save our Reggie, Reeves?”

“There is a strong possibility that I can effect a positive outcome, sir,” said Reeves. His voice was most un-machinelike. Not that I’d ever heard a machine speak, but if I had, I’d imagine it would be redolent of clanking gears and punctuated by puffs of steam escaping from the lips.

I espied not a single puff. This Reeves spoke like an educated cove. Maybe not Oxford, but certainly one of the lesser public schools.

“How?” I asked.

The Reeves took a deep breath. Still no puff of steam, or audible evidence of a piston clanking away in his chest.

“It is a most vexing situation, sir. One necessitating the utmost care and coordination. Are you prepared to execute my instructions to the letter?”

“Most certainly. You have the word of a Worcester.”

“Very good, sir. You must take me with you to Crandle.”

“What?”

My mind reacquainted itself with the outskirts of Boggledom.

“My presence at the castle is essential, sir, for I need to see the young gentleman and his intended in order to construct the perfect extrication. One which satisfies all parties, and increases the esteem in which you are held by your Aunt Bertha.”

The Worcester lips parted but the tonsil area was bare. I was still mired in Reeves’s last sentence. Could he really put me in Aunt Bertha’s good books? Did she have a good book?

~~~

And so it came to pass that in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and three, one Reginald Worcester and his gentleman’s gentle-automaton, Reeves — accoutred now in Saville Row’s finest valetware — left London for the northern climes of the county of Salop and that ancient pile, Crandle Castle.

We made good time; the Stanley Steamer, my second foray into the world of the horseless carriage, behaved itself and required only two stops to take on water.

“Do you need to take on water, Reeves?” I’d asked at the first stop.

“Not at this juncture, sir.”

“Well, shout out when you do. Coal, water, soothing oils. Whatever you require. I don’t wish to return you to the Sloths broken.”

“Your intention is to return me to that gentleman’s club, sir?”

“Of course. We Worcesters have a code. Return what thou hast borrowed.”

“A most excellent code, sir, but … what if the object in question would prefer not to be returned?”

“Oh.”

I cogitated for several minutes as my grey cells struggled with the philosophical niceties. When borrowing an umbrella, one does not expect said parapluie to request asylum. Free me, Reginaldlet me fly away to Manchester to join others of my kind.

“You have an objection to being returned to the Sloths?” I asked.

“If I may be so bold, sir. I did find being locked in a cupboard for fourteen years somewhat less than convivial.”

I could see his point.

“How did you come to be locked in a cupboard in the first place?”

“I believe I had been won in a game of cards, sir, the outcome of which was disputed. And, for reasons not divulged unto me, I was confined to a cupboard.”

“Where you remained until this very day?”

“Indeed, sir. Young gentlemen can be most forgetful.”

My conscience was pricked. Had I ever left a manservant in a cupboard? I didn’t think I had, but then if Oxford had been in the habit of handing out blues for memory, the name Reginald Worcester would not have featured.

“Once we’ve finished here, I shall drop you off wherever you wish, Reeves. The world is your cupboard.”

“That is most gracious of you, sir.”

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