The Adventure of the Skittering Shadow: Sherlock Holmes in Space

by Sam Gamble

  “Never mind, old man,” Holmes immediately responded, forgiving me quickly as was his wont. He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. “Do I smell bacon? Real bacon! That would explain how Miss Stoner was able to sway the captain. To the kitchen, Watson! We must investigate before it’s all gone!”

  Chapter 03

  Breakfast did indeed feature real bacon as well as real eggs and watermelon, all of which the captain cheerfully admitted to having accepted from Miss Stoner in the course of their early morning collusion against Holmes and I.

  “In the future, I will remember to take into consideration the likely moral underpinnings of potential lessors, Watson,” declared Holmes after we had left the ship. “There is a mercenary side to the captain that I had failed to consider when I originally suggested taking rooms aboard the Tommy Hudson.”

  “It certainly made the early hour easier to bear,” I returned as we traversed Phoebus’ spaceport, leaving the cargo sector for the commercial one. Although we lived on a spaceship, it was currently undergoing minor maintenance and refueling before taking on cargo bound for some of the lesser colonies. Consequently, the Tommy Hudson was unavailable to ferry us down to the Nerio colony.

  “What other seemingly minor misdeeds is the captain is capable of?” continued Holmes. “Would she inform on the progress of an investigation for a box of strawberries?”

  “She should hold out for something from an actual cow next time. Meat or dairy, I don’t care which.”

  Holmes laughed. “As always, you are eminently practical, dear Watson.”

  “You know as well as I do that the captain is a good, decent sort. She’d never interfere with your business. And you would never quit the Tommy Hudson. It’s too convenient to you.”

  The rooms were excellent, the ship’s schedule generally met his needs, and few would indulge Holmes’ demands and peculiarities the way that the captain did. And, though he would never admit it, I suspected Holmes was already rather attached to the Tommy Hudson.

  We took the first direct shuttle to the Athena Nike spaceport, and in the B terminal caught a second, shorter flight on a smaller shuttle intended solely for intracolony travel.

  Built inside of the upper magma chamber of an extinct volcano now named Nike Mons, there had never in the history of man been anything like Nerio. Nothing like it had ever even been attempted. It had taken decades of scientific research, magnificent leaps in technological innovation, and countless engineering advancements – all tested and retested first in laboratory simulators, then in research facilities and lava vent communities on Earth, Earth’s Luna, and Mars – before Nerio became even a bright possibility on mankind’s horizon. Science had advanced and with it the dream Nerio, Mars’ first city and a true subterranean metropolis.

  The colony was the planet’s jewel, its crowning achievement to date. Not even the ongoing construction of a second Martian city, on which work had begun about a decade ago, or the recent research into energy domes, which might theoretically allow colonies to be built on the planet’s surface someday, could dim a Martian’s love or enthusiasm for the planet’s first city. Now, as at the time of its completion, Nerio was the pride and joy of every Martian’s heart, including my companion’s.

  As an offworlder, I possessed greater immunity to Nerio’s dubious charms.

  In the century since its founding, Nerio had developed an economy, social striation, and a fantastic infrastructure. Nerio was Mars’ most populated settlement, and it was always under construction. The city already had quadrants, levels, and more and less fashionable areas. It had not yet, however, developed that homey, lived-in feeling that Earth’s older cities possessed. But what Nerio lacked in wear and familiarity, the city made up for with character. And sand, lots and lots of coarse red sand.

  Sand grains were wedged into crevices, smudged in corners, and caught under nails. They got trapped in filters and mixed into concrete, giving all of the buildings a faintly red patina. Occasionally, when a tap had not been run often enough, it stained the water dull red and left a ring in the sink. The sand got into everything. Days in the planet’s colonies always ended with me dumping copious amounts of red sand out of my shoes, the soles and toes of my socks stained rust red.

  It was difficult to imagine anyone as fastidious as Sherlock Holmes enduring anything as messy as Mars, but he not only bore it, he truly loved the red planet. And he was devoted to its colonies, particularly Nerio.

  In the present, the intracolony shuttle set us down on a landing pad in a mid-level district in Nerio’s western quadrant.

  “Aren’t we some ways from the Stoners’ apartment?” I dared to ask. Holmes’ knowledge of the city far surpassed my own, but I was certain that there was at least one major landing pad closer to the flat.

  “We’re meeting William Chapman for brunch at a restaurant near here,” Holmes answered. “He is most eager to help his ex-wives in any way that he can.”

  I snorted, unable to prevent the grin that escaped me. I was equal parts amused and impressed by the gentleman in question.

  “Did you get a chance to look at those medical records, Watson?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Holmes had spent the time that we were in transit calling people in the city, doing research, and scribbling notes and figures into a data pad. As I had spent that same time skimming the deceased Miss Stoner’s extensive medical records, I felt confident that I could add to the discussion.

  “The coroner seems to have been a stolid, conscientious type, and I can see how she came to her final conclusions. I can say without qualification that the coroner did everything required of her by law and was thorough in her examination. Her conclusions were solidly rooted in the data available to her.”

  “Were there any signs of poison?”

  “The coroner and the consultant didn’t detect any. I looked at the raw results of the coroner’s tests, and I agree with her. Based on the tests that were run, Julia Stoner was not poisoned.” Contemplating the possibilities, I gave my cane a little swing. The remnant of an old injury, I carried it now more from habit than the occasional necessity. “However, there are some discretionary tests that I wish had been done then that cannot be done now, as Julia Stoner’s body has already been cremated.”

  “The coroner included the raw test results in her report?” asked Holmes. He sounded surprised.

  “No, but Miss Stoner included it in her message, along with the autopsy video, the coroner’s private case notes, and relevant entries from the consultant’s personal diary.”

  They were all things that no practicing medical professional would release without a court order, and certainly not to a grieving relative of the deceased.

  Holmes frowned. Rather than commenting on what were doubtless Miss Stoner’s means of obtaining such sensitive information, he said, “The finances are as Miss Stoner intimated. Only Helen Stoner and Dr. Grimesby Roylott will benefit from Julia Stoner’s death. I’ve asked contacts of mine on Earth to determine if the man as well as his money resides on the planet and to check on the general state of his finances. I have also reached out to a contact within Nerio’s government to find out what Julia Stoner’s position was with them. Perhaps someone there will benefit or advance on her death.” I nodded and, slanting a look my way, Sherlock Holmes asked, “What do you make of it, Watson?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” I confessed. “The woman was alone in a locked room when she met her fate. Nothing could have gotten to her. It seems impossible that she was the victim of a nefarious plot, save if her sister was the force that moved against her. But it is her sister who begged you to discover the dead woman’s fate. She is obsessed with it.”

  “What then of the woman’s cause of death? Three separate doctors, one of whom I know to be among the best of his profession, could not determine the cause of her death.”

  “That is disconcerting at best,” I agreed, secretly warm with pleasure at Holmes’ unobtrusive compliment. “Bu
t even now, medicine is full of mysteries. And so is Mars.”

  “At least one of which will hopefully be resolved at the conclusion of our investigation,” added Holmes. “Come, Watson, I see the restaurant! And there is William Chapman, wearing the hat with the bright blue band that we agreed upon.”

  William Chapman, the husband that the sisters had passed between them, was a lanky man with dark hair, dark eyes, and raw knuckles. Although not especially handsome, the force of his charisma was not lost even upon me, an ardent admirer of the fairer sex.

  As we drew nearer, Chapman doffed his hat at us, a gesture that I returned. Holmes, who was not wearing a hat, contented himself with a nod.

  There were introductions all around before we went inside and seated ourselves at a table near one of the windows. The next few minutes were consumed with making meal selections and putting in our orders at the table’s small ordering station. When the minutia of daily life had finally been dealt with, Mr. Chapman leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, and regarded us with frank interest.

  I regarded him with equal curiosity. A man who bagged sisters – or was bagged by sisters depending on one’s perspective, I supposed – with no hard feelings on anyone’s part was a rare man indeed.

  “When you contacted me, Mr. Holmes, you said that Helen had hired you to help her sort out the mystery surrounding Julia’s death,” said Mr. Chapman. “What can I do to help?”

  “What can you tell us about the sisters Stoner?” inquired Holmes, while leaning forward in his seat. His expression had thinned with predatory interest.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular?” asked Mr. Chapman nervously.

  “Not yet. Simply tell us what comes to mind about them.”

  Chapman still looked uncertain so I added encouragingly, “Things like their friends, enemies, and peculiarities could be very useful.”

  Looking relieved, Mr. Chapman slouched down in his seat and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He stared moodily into the middle distance for some moments before he said at last, “I don’t think that they had any enemies or very many real friends either. They were both friendly enough and easy to like, even love, but there was always a distance to them, except from each other. They were like those sister stars that rotate around each other. Others could be pulled into their orbit, but their primary pull was on each other. It was kind of poetic that they were identical.”

  “What were their daily routines like?” prompted Holmes.

  “Julia liked routine. When we were married, she was out of bed at seven every morning and in to work by eight thirty. What time she came home was a little more varied, but she always ate lunch from one to two and dinner from seven to eight. She was usually in bed by ten. Helen doesn’t believe in schedules. When we were married, she’d stay out all night drinking with her buddies then catch a shuttle off-world the next morning or sleep all day on her day off. They were both wild, but Julia hid it better.”

  “Wild?” I asked, surprised. Given the woman’s rigid routine, I had assumed that Julia Stoner would be equally inflexible in other aspects of her life. “How was Julia Stoner wild?”

  “In a brainy way,” responded Chapman, while making a vague gesture with one of his hands. “They both enjoyed gambling but they went about it differently. Helen relies on luck and quits when her streak runs out, but Julia would count the cards or do the math to make sure that she won more than she lost. If they were betting on a sports team, Helen would pick the one that felt good. Julia would do the research on both teams, fickle around with the math, and pick the one with the greatest probability of success. They took different routes, but they usually ended up at more or less the same place.”

  “When we asked Miss Helen Stoner about her sister’s work, she couldn’t or wouldn’t tell us anything,” said Holmes as the robotic server brought our meals. “What, if anything, do you know about it?”

  “Not much,” admitted Chapman, grimacing. “I was married to Julia for three years, and I still don’t know any more about her work than I learned the day that I met her. If Helen knows anything about what Julia was working on, it probably isn’t anything useful. Julia is – was good at keeping secrets; Helen, not so much. But even if she knew something, Helen wouldn’t tell you. She always tried to keep Julia’s secrets.”

  The conversation lulled as the robot, its assigned task completed, trundled back to the kitchen, and we bent our heads to the task of eating. The meal was drawing to a close when Holmes resumed the conversation.

  “To your knowledge, did they ever disagree?” inquired Holmes.

  Chapman thought for a few moments before saying, “Only about Julia’s chewing tobacco and Helen’s tendency to unthinkingly unravel or shred things. That’s all I remember them arguing about, anyway. I know it’s not much. I’m sorry that I can’t be more help to you.”

  “On the contrary, you have been quite helpful,” said Holmes, surprising me. “Thank you for your time. Your information will be most useful in our investigation.”

  We paid our portions of the tab and shook hands with Chapman before leaving him to the rest of his day. Holmes and I were some distance from the restaurant before I asked, “Was Chapman really that helpful?”

  “Oh yes, indubitably. He has given me the inkling of an idea.”

  I waited for him to elaborate, but Holmes merely smiled.

  “What are you thinking?” I finally inquired, but Holmes merely shook his head. “Holmes! You’re not going to keep it to yourself, are you?”

  “For the time being, I think I should. I’d prefer to have matters more clearly laid out in my own mind before I speak.”

  And that was the end of the discussion, no matter how I pestered him.

  Chapter 04

  The Stoner sisters lived in the western quadrant, otherwise known as the Yuri Gagarin borough, in one of the older, more cramped residential districts. One of the first areas to be built, it consequently had a harder, more utilitarian edge to it that the colony’s newer districts lacked, one which the residents had tried to alleviate with vibrant colors, cheerful lighting, and life.

  Bicycles sped down the streets, their bells ringing out, and teenagers ambled in packs along the sidewalks. The children had claimed the narrow alleys as their own, shouting and laughing as they played their games, while high over their heads laundry lines had been strung between the buildings. Damp clothing fluttered in the recycled breeze, and neighborhood honeybees reeled between window boxes, pollinating flowers and herbs. Planters filled with small bushes had been tucked up against most of the buildings. And somewhere, someone was cooking cabbage while someone else barbequed.

  The Stoner’s sisters’ apartment building looked like all of the others in the neighborhood: blocky, serviceable, and hastily welded together after the fact. The stairwells were open air and the elevators cramped. Most of the buildings had a fire escape crawling down at least one of their sides.

  The sisters’ residence was a corner apartment on the fourth floor of their building, next to one of the two stairwells that bookended the building. In a row of grubby white or reddish-pink doors, theirs was painted sunshine yellow. In front of their door lay a slightly crooked mat, the word “WELCOME!” printed on it in green. And as promised, Helen Stoner was waiting for us.

  “I’m so glad that you’ve come,” said the lady as she stepped aside.

  The main room was an open space, its walls painted that same cheerful shade of yellow as the front door, with three doors branching off from it, two to my right and one at the back of the room. The first door on the right, the one closest to the front door, had the remnants of police tape on it. A striped tote bag hung from the second door on the right’s doorknob.

  To my left, I found a kitchen where there should have been none. Tucked into the left-hand corner of the room, it was about seven feet long, two feet deep, and maybe three feet tall with overhead cabinets. The sheer luxury of it shocked me. On Mars, personal kitch
ens were the stuff of wealth.

  “Is it yours or Julia’s?” inquired Holmes as he crossed the room to the secret kitchen, narrowly avoiding a collision with one of the room’s ottomans, which looked like nothing so much as a moveable storage cube. It was one of two such pieces, both having been designed to serve as chairs, footrests, or work surfaces anywhere within the main room.

  “Julia’s. She loved to cook. The herbs in the window box are hers too.”

  Holmes explored the refrigerator and freezer, both small units tucked beneath the kitchen counter, then rifled through the various shelves to their right. He peeked inside the stove, rapped his knuckles against the inside of the sink, and pulled himself up onto the counter, the better to examine a small ceiling vent.

  Holmes abandoned the countertop, leaving the dusty outline of his footprints in his wake, and turned his attention on the moveable storage cubes, finding colorful pillows and towels inside one and folded sheets and blankets in the other. He was entirely disinterested in the table that folded out of the wall.