The Aunt Paradox (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries) Read Online Free Page A

Both Mr Wells and yourself imbibed liberally prior to your journey here.”
    ~
    Paintings continued to pop off walls. Persian rugs were exchanged for lesser rugs, and then no rugs at all. Mirrors disappeared, drapes dissolved, and occasional tables became less occasional. Reeves assured us that the wallpaper had changed too, though I had no recollection of the earlier pattern he described. None of the aunts appeared to notice anything remiss at all — even the ones who found themselves suddenly standing when previously they’d been sitting!
    “I say,” I said, waving auntwards. “Excuse me! Has anyone noticed the chairs disappearing?”
    I might as well have chewed the carpet — if there had been a carpet — such was the look they gave me. Ignore him, dear, can’t you see he’s touched. I don’t think he’s dangerous, but best not to look at him.
    Even HG couldn’t get through to them. “Can’t you see the room changing around you?” he said. “Three of you were sitting on a chaise longue a minute ago!”
    “Have you been drinking, Bertie?”
    “I smelled it on his breath when he first arrived. I didn’t want to say anything but...”
    There was simply no talking to them.
    The room continued its downward spiral. The good furniture either disappeared or was replaced with an inferior model. Then the air in the middle of the room began to shimmer and — shazam! — a time machine — for what else could it be? — crystallised out of the ether. Aunt Charlotte was sitting in the driver’s seat, with a large pile of loot glistening beside her. She did not look best pleased.
    “My lovely house!” she cried, jumping to her feet. “What have you done to it? My furniture! My paintings! And who filled my wine cellar with turnips?”
    She looked accusingly our way. All other conversation in the room had stopped. Then, just as I was bracing myself for another tirade — with or without turnips — her face changed. All her anger turned to surprise.
    “Bertie! What are you wearing?”
    I glanced at HG, half expecting to see his clothes turned to rags. But they hadn’t. The Worcester jaw nearly hit the floor. The Herbert George Wells who stood beside me was wearing a long blue dress and, if my nose could be trusted, rather a large amount of perfume.
    And when he spoke, it was with the voice of a woman. “Why are you calling me Bertie, Aunt Charlotte? Can’t you see it’s me? Gertrude.”
    I could not believe it. Bertie was a Gertie!

Four
    looked at Reeves. Reeves looked at Aunt Charlotte. Aunt Charlotte looked at Gertie, and Gertie looked at me. None of us could speak. I suspect Babbage’s cat had our tongues. He was, after all, a much-provoked feline.
    “You see what I mean?” Gertie said to me, breaking the silence and pointing at the time machine. “Where did all that money come from? You’ve got to help me return it to the rightful owners.”
    My mouth was still open, but the Worcester cupboard of words was bare.
    “It’s all right, Gertie,” said one of the cohort of aunts. “It’s our money. We gave Charlotte permission to fetch it.”
    Other aunts nodded solicitously.
    Gertie was not mollified. She glared at the eldest Aunt while pointing at the others. “And who are they? Why do they look like you?”
    Reeves coughed. It was like being down to your last musket ball as the enemy closed in on all sides, and then hearing the distant trumpet call of the cavalry announcing imminent salvation.
    “If I may explain, Mrs Dean, Miss Wells,” he said. “Your niece has been much concerned by the change in your fortune over the years. It would appear that money and jewellery has been going missing for many years. A situation which caused this .” Reeves indicated the room. “And this .” Reeves indicated Gertie.
    “Your niece was so vexed that she engaged the services of Mr Worcester here, who is a gentleman’s consulting detective. She had seen your new machine and was concerned that, given the