The Underwater Ballroom Society

by Y. S. Lee

  “Harry,” Bertrand whispered, “I don’t see…”

  Harriet silenced him with a raised hand.

  “My furniture,” the Comte said. “It has been in my family for generations. I would not be without it.”

  Convenient. Harriet could not imagine the furniture would be searched. It would be a easy way to smuggle valuable Ancient Martian artifacts, and a profitable one, too. Certainly enough to keep him in his trans-planetary lifestyle.

  “Where were you when James Strachan died?”

  “In my rooms, preparing for the ball. As I should be now.”

  “And yet your man wasn’t with you,” Bertrand said.

  “I sent him to press my jacket. It had become creased during the journey.”

  “That’s true,” Bertrand told Harriet. “His man was witnessed by two of the footmen.” He raised his voice. “Thank you, Comte.”

  The man lifted his chin and looked away again. Bertrand peered at the other guests. Harriet could see the desperation on his face.

  Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Reginald Pratt pushed himself away from the wall, smirking. “This is going well. Let me help you out. I came because I was invited. I have never met your victim. I have no interest in killing servants. I have no proof of any of that and no alibi. Is that helpful?” He swept his arm around the room. “I would put a few pounds on everyone here giving you the same answer. Only”—he placed a thoughtful finger on his chin—“I don’t suppose your family have a few pounds to wager.” He let out a bellow of a laugh.

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick straightened. “I see nothing amusing in this situation, sir. It is an inconvenience and an unwelcome one.”

  “Then, ah, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, might I ask what you and your husband are doing at the Louros Hotel?” Bertrand said.

  “My husband is a famous man. He was invited. We did not know the poor young man who died. I do not know why we are suspects. My husband is not in the habit of killing people.”

  Bertrand almost choked. Harriet nudged him.

  “I beg your pardon,” Bertrand said. “Bit of a frog, you know?”

  “We were in our room the entire time,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said.

  Sir Lancelot leapt forward so quickly Mrs. Fitzpatrick almost fell off her chair.

  “Why should we believe you? How do we know you are not lying?”

  Colonel Fitzpatrick’s eyes hardened. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. But it was as though the massed guns of Napoleon’s mechanized divisions had turned as one towards Sir Lancelot. Sir Lancelot paled. He took a step back and cleared his throat.

  “Perhaps we should move on?”

  “You’ve travelled to the Lunae Planum?” Harriet said.

  Colonel Fitzpatrick nodded slowly. “What is the relevance of that, young lady?”

  “We’re simply trying to establish information. I hear you were looking for a dragon tomb.”

  “I obtained a map showing the location of an undiscovered tomb, but we were unable to locate it.”

  “What exactly is the point of this line of questioning?” Sir William said. “We are investigating a murder, not discussing tours of Mars.”

  Bertrand shot Harriet a pleading look. The point, Harriet thought, was that Colonel Fitzpatrick could easily have made contact with the smuggling gang in Lunae City, but she could think of no easy way to ask the question.

  “Perhaps we should turn to Mr. and Mrs. Edgeware,” Bertrand said. “They have visited Lunae City, too, I believe. Perhaps, Mr. and Mrs. Edgeware, you could tell us the purpose of your visit here? You mentioned an interest in the ruins?”

  “Oh yes. My husband has a great enthusiasm for anything Ancient Martian, don’t you, my dear?”

  “Their civilization was astonishing,” Mr. Edgeware said.

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick snorted in a most unladylike manner.

  “My husband was lucky enough to come into an inheritance,” Mrs. Edgeware said. “His aunt, God rest her soul. We decided to spend it visiting all of the great ruins on Mars.”

  Harriet made a mental note to check the newspapers for any reports of such a death and inheritance.

  “About our victim,” Bertrand said. “Did you meet him?”

  Mrs. Edgeware nodded. “I think so. Do you remember, Colin? We couldn’t find our room, and the young man showed us the way.”

  “Did he seem nervous?” Harriet said. “Agitated?”

  Mrs. Edgeware shook her head.

  Bertrand leaned forward. “Was he whistling?”

  Harriet closed her eyes. What was this obsession Bertrand had with the whistling?

  Mrs. Edgeware gave Harriet a confused look. “Yes. Well, he stopped when we approached him, but he did whistle. Not terribly well.”

  Bertrand gave Harriet a meaningful look. “See? I told you.”

  Harriet shook her head. “Where were you at the time of the murder?”

  “In our room, preparing for our voyage in the submersible to visit the ruins. Colin has been excited for weeks.”

  “And you were together?”

  “Yes, of course. With the children. Oh. Colin did pop out for a few minutes. We weren’t sure where the submersible would depart from. Colin went to check. But it was only a few minutes.”

  So. Mr. Edgeware did have the opportunity to push James Strachan off the balcony. But why would he? Why would anyone?

  “Reverend and Mrs. Asheville?” Bertrand said.

  The reverend shook his head. “I do not think we have anything helpful, I am afraid. We did not meet the young man, and we certainly would not have wished him harm.”

  Bertrand threw Harry a glance. She shrugged. The reverend was clearly frail, and his wife even more so. Certainly neither of them had attacked her, and she doubted that even the two of them together could have pushed a fit young man over the balcony.

  “Which brings us to you, Mr. Davies,” Bertrand said. “What is the purpose of your visit?”

  The student blinked. “I was awarded a grant by Tharsis University to study the ruins. I have some theories about their construction and use. You wouldn’t understand them. And, no, I never met the chap.”

  Bertrand cocked his head to one side. “Are you sure?”

  “I think I’d know, don’t you?”

  “How old are you, Mr. Davies?”

  The student looked around, confused. “Twenty-three. I don’t understand the relevance, sir.”

  “Mr. Ellis?” The hotel manager looked up with a start. “Mr. Ellis, how old was James Strachan?”

  The hotel manager blinked. “Ah… Twenty-two, I believe.”

  “Not much to build your case on, Simpson,” Sir William said loudly. “I expect better than that.”

  Bertrand reddened, but he kept his eyes fixed on Mr. Davies. “It is peculiar, though. You see, I read an article in the Tharsis Times on your work. They were very impressed by your theories for one so young. A future star of the University, they said.”

  “So?” Mr. Davies shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “So they included a brief biography of you. In it, I read that you had once attended Queen Anne’s Academy. Just like James Strachan. You would have been in the same year as Mr. Strachan, or a year above him. I find it hard to believe that you never met him or that you didn’t recognize him.”

  Mr. Davies’s eyes flicked from side to side. Then he slumped back. “Oh, very well. Yes, I knew him. So what?”

  “So you lied. Why?”

  The student glared. “I had forgotten him, all right? I left Queen Anne’s six years ago.”

  Bertrand looked at him askance. “No. That’s not it. The way you talk about him. That’s not the way you would talk about someone you’d forgotten. You resent him.”

  The student’s lips tightened, but he didn’t respond.

  “Come, now. I can arrest you and haul you back to Tharsis City. We’ll get to the truth there.”

  Harriet gritted her teeth. This was wrong. Whatever had passed between Davies and S
trachan when they’d been at school was neither here nor there. Strachan had been killed for the package he was carrying. But she couldn’t question him on that without letting her cover slip.

  The student let out a sound of frustration. “Fine! But I didn’t kill Strachan. I didn’t even know he was here.”

  “We saw you on the train,” Harriet said. “You looked furious.”

  “I was reading Braithwaite’s idiotic theories on Fourth Age Ancient Martian culture. You’d be furious, too.”

  “What happened between you and Strachan?” Bertrand pressed.

  “He had me thrown out of school, that’s what. It was at the beginning of our final year and there was this girl I liked at school, a maid. Strachan took a fancy to her as well. He told our House Master that I’d stolen a watch from one of the other masters, and he planted it under my mattress. I was kicked out immediately, and all so he could have a free run at the maid.”

  “That sounds like a motive to me,” Harriet said.

  Davies shook his head disdainfully. “It was six years ago, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. My father employed a tutor who was a student of archaeology at Tharsis University. He taught me more on the subject than I would have learned in a lifetime at Queen Anne’s. Under his instruction, I was able to get a place at the University, and I have already made a name for myself in the field of Ancient Martian history. Strachan? It appears he was reduced to a footman. Why would I resent him?”

  Resentment could be like coals in a hearth, still burning hot under the cold ashes. When he saw Strachan again after all that time… But it wasn’t proof. It wasn’t even evidence. And it had nothing to do with the smuggling ring.

  Sir Lancelot must have thought that the attention had been directed away from him for too long. He strode into the middle of the floor and towered over Mr. Davies.

  “I have just one question.”

  Mr. Davies shrugged.

  “That maid you were interested in. Was it…” He swung around with the dramatic gesture, flinging out a hand. “…Emily?”

  “What? No. Her name was Sarah Mason. She didn’t look anything like this girl.”

  Sir Lancelot stood frozen, arm held out, for a moment. Then he stepped back. “Just what I thought.”

  Reginald Pratt pried himself away from the wall. Harriet didn’t think she’d ever seen his smirk look so malicious.

  “How about you, Miss George? Where were you when the murder occurred? From what I’ve heard, you were alone with your…brother-in-law.” He managed to fill the term with unpleasant insinuation. “It seems others may fall under suspicion by virtue of only receiving alibis from their families. By my money, that makes you and Mr. Simpson just as likely suspects.”

  Bertrand’s jaw dropped and he turned a stricken look on Harriet.

  Harriet was not fazed. “There were a dozen witnesses in the room with us when we heard the scream. Now, may we continue the questioning?”

  But Sir Lancelot wasn’t done with the limelight.

  “There is no need,” he proclaimed. “For I have identified the murderer.”

  A murmur of excitement went around the room. The gathered suspects exchanged glances.

  “Exactly as I expected,” Sir William said, sending a satisfied look toward Bertrand.

  Harriet surveyed the faces in the room. No one looked nervous. The murderer must be a good actor to hold his nerve. Or maybe he felt confident nothing could be proven.

  “The murderer,” Sir Lancelot said, turning slowly, “is…you!” His finger shot toward the hotel manager.

  The man blinked blearily. “Me?”

  “Yes. James Strachan was stealing from the hotel. You didn’t dare expose him, because that would damage your reputation and the hotel’s reputation. So, you saw your opportunity and you murdered him instead.”

  Sir William leaped out of his chair. “You dastardly fiend! Simpson, arrest this man immediately!”

  “But it couldn’t have been me,” the manager spluttered. “I was in my office the whole time.”

  “No one was with you,” sneered Sir Lancelot. “You could have snuck out, murdered poor Strachan, and returned, leaving no one the wiser.”

  The manager was already shaking his head. “No, I couldn’t. The only way I could get from my office to where Mr. Strachan died was to pass through the main foyer. The front desk is always staffed. I could not pass through unwitnessed. You may feel free to test the route yourself.”

  “Oh.” Sir Lancelot slumped. “Well, then… I knew that! It was a ruse. I—”

  Sir William cut him off. “I’ve had enough of this. Simpson, who is the murderer? I demand you tell me immediately. You have inconvenienced everyone far too greatly.”

  Bertrand stared. His mouth moved soundlessly.

  It was too soon. Harriet’s fingernails bit into her palms. She had suspects, theories, but no proof and she didn’t know.

  “Well?” A cruel smile had worked its way onto Sir William’s face.

  Bertrand shuddered, as though he had been stung by an electric wasp. Then his eyes blinked, once, slowly.

  “I need ten minutes. Just ten minutes. If everyone would wait here…” He turned and raced for the door.

  Hell! He was fleeing. Harriet didn’t blame him. He’d seen the end of his career staring him in the face, and he’d run. Harriet wanted to charge after him, but a dragging lethargy had settled on her, like she was trying to support the entire weight of the Valles Marineris on her back.

  She had missed something. She knew she had. Something had been staring her in the face. But what?

  Mr. Edgeware, Colonel Fitzpatrick, and Mr. Davies all had links to the Lunae Planum from where the unfortunate Mr. Strachan had travelled. Reginald Pratt knew how to identify her contact. The Comte had every opportunity to smuggle goods to Earth, and he was struggling to hear. One of them had to have killed Strachan. Maybe more than one of them. But which, and how could she prove it?

  The guests were becoming increasingly impatient, and still there was no sign of Bertrand. What if he really had made a run for it? Would he climb into one of the submersibles and head back to shore without her?

  “This is absurd,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. “How long must we remain here? I have already been inconvenienced enough.”

  Colonel Fitzpatrick rose smoothly from his chair. He turned his cold gaze on Sir William. “We are leaving. I trust you will not attempt to stop us.”

  He and Mrs. Fitzpatrick made their way to the door. The other guests rose to follow.

  Come on, Bertrand. Where was he?

  The door opened in front of the colonel. Bertrand hurried into the room, followed by an automatic servant carrying a large box. Bertrand looked flustered, but he smiled at the guests.

  “I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. If I could beg your indulgence for just a moment more…”

  “It may have escaped your notice, young man, but the ball begins in only three hours,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. She looked him up and down. “There may be little you can do to prepare, but I have a position to maintain and I will not shame my husband.”

  “Just a minute, I promise.”

  Reluctantly, the guests made their way back to their seats.

  “Well?” Sir William said. “Are you ready to end this façade, Simpson?”

  “I believe I have discovered the murderer, sir,” Bertrand said. He glanced at the automatic servant. “Command: place the box on this table.” The automatic servant complied.

  Harriet stared at her brother-in-law. This was going to be a disaster. Bertrand knew nothing about the package or the smuggling ring. Without that knowledge, he had no hope of uncovering the murderer. He was going to make a fool of himself. It would end his career.

  Think, Harriet. Think! What had she missed? Who had killed James Strachan? Time was up. She had to solve it now.

  “What nonsense,” Sir Lancelot exclaimed. “There is no way anyone could have figured it out.” He brushed a han
d over his fine, blond hair. “Even I could not.”

  Bertrand smiled. “Indulge me. You see, it all started with the socks.”

  Harriet covered her eyes.

  “What is this nonsense?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick demanded.

  “Mr. Strachan was wearing socks that showed him to be a boy from Queen Anne’s Academy. That seemed peculiar for a footman, and it seemed to me very possible that something from his school days had come back to haunt him.”

  “I’ve already told you I had nothing to do with it,” Mr. Davies said.

  “Oh, I know you’re not the murderer,” Bertrand said. “But, as it turns out, you did have something to do with it after all.”

  Mr. Davies shook his head.

  “And there was another important clue. Emily and Mr. and Mrs. Compton heard a discordant whistling just before Mr. Strachan fell.”

  “Enough of this,” Sir William growled. “Tell us who the murderer is.”

  Bertrand inclined his head. “The murderer is Emily.”

  The room erupted into noise. Emily’s eyes widened. Shock, Harriet thought. But shock because it was true or because she was being accused of murder?

  “Piffle,” Sir William said. “The girl was observed by Mr. and Mrs. Compton at the precise time of Mr. Strachan’s death. Unless you are claiming that they were in on it, too.”

  Mrs. Compton let out a gasp.

  “Of course not. But Emily did murder him and she arranged it all so that she would have an unimpeachable alibi. You see, when Mr. Davies here mentioned the name of the maid whom he had been interested in at school, it rang a bell. I knew I had seen that name somewhere before in one of the newspapers. So, I went to confirm it. That maid, Sarah Mason, is now an opera singer. In fact, she was the very one to replace Emily in the Tharsis City Opera Company.”

  Mrs. Asheville turned to her husband. “I remember now. We attended a performance of The Barber of Seville the year after Miss Wright left. We saw Miss Wright’s replacement.” She turned to Emily, who was standing rigid to one side. “She wasn’t a patch on you, my dear. My husband commented as much. She could barely hold a note.”

  “A little further digging,” Bertrand said, “led me to discover that Mr. Strachan’s father was a patron of the opera company. It became clear what must have happened. Mr. Strachan used his influence to have Emily dismissed and Sarah Mason hired in her place.”