The Adventure of the Skittering Shadow: Sherlock Holmes in Space

by Sam Gamble

  The door at the back of the main room led to the bathroom, which had lilac walls and a tiled floor. Standing in the doorway, there was a sink and mirror directly across from us and a toilet to our right. To our left was the shower stall, over the door of which was folded a pair of towels, one black and the other bright purple. A third towel, smaller and bright orange, hung from a steel towel ring near the sink. Nearly hidden within the orange towel’s folds was a steel toothbrush holder, also affixed to the wall.

  Behind the mirror, toiletries were aligned with military precision, while stowed beneath the sink were the cleaning products and laundry detergent. In the sink, someone had left a stack of folded laundry, while on its rim was balanced a brush, dark strands of hair still tangled in its tines.

  Holmes popped into the shower, the towels swinging in his wake, and then emerged moments later to fetch a storage cube from the main room. Standing on it, he examined the small vent in the ceiling at length before declaring that he was done in there.

  To the right of the bathroom door, there was a series of panels that stretched from floor to ceiling. Nodding at them, Holmes asked, “What are they?”

  “Environmental controls,” answered Miss Stoner. “The housing in this neighborhood was made from obsolete construction workers’ barracks, all stacked on top of each other. The hallways, stairwells, and central heating and cooling systems were all added after the fact. If the worst should happen, I could theoretically refill the tanks in that wall, close off the pipes and vents that attach this condo to the rest of the complex, and survive on my own power until help arrived. But it’s cheaper and easier to breathe the ambient air and pay the utilities bills.”

  “Of course,” murmured Holmes. “I’d like to see Julia Stoner’s bedroom now.”

  The late Miss Julia Stoner’s bedroom was just long enough to hold a bed frame and barely wide enough to accommodate the width of the bed and a narrow wardrobe. At the foot of the bed was a window, across which a navy blue curtain had been drawn.

  Standing on the threshold, Holmes crouched down and pressed a hand into the room’s plush navy blue carpet. He examined every millimeter of the carpet before moving to the bed.

  The bed, which filled all the space to the left of the door, sat about three feet off of the ground on a frame that had a dresser built into its base. It had been stripped of its bedding. Looking at that bare mattress, I could not help but to imagine a corpse lying there, her limbs as twisted as the white sheets.

  Shivering, I looked away from Holmes’ investigation of the mattress and its drawers. My gaze fell on the cluster of framed photographs and short videos that had been hung across from the bed, snapshots of a happy life. As I watched, they cycled into their next set of captured moments.

  Wedged between the side of the bed and the wall, the wardrobe had flowers painted on its door and a half full bag of dirty laundry hanging from its handle. It was filled with dark suits and light blouses. Neatly arranged beneath them were a pair of flip-flops, several pairs of high heels, and a pair of sneakers. On the shelf above the suits, Holmes found a black jewelry box, some trinkets, and a data pad, remarkable only for the sheer number of romance novels downloaded. A full length mirror was bolted on the inside of the closet’s door.

  By virtue of standing on the bed, Holmes inspected the ceiling vent before shuffling down the bed’s length to haul back the curtain and open the window, whereupon he discovered a window box filled with dead plants and the fire escape. Closing the window and its curtain, Holmes abandoned the bed. He was frowning when he turned to us, but all he said was, “I’d like to see the other bedroom now.”

  Without waiting for, or even, I’d wager, particularly wanting a reply, he led us to Helen Stoner’s bedroom. Although it was no bigger than her sister’s, her room was… overwhelming, to phrase it kindly.

  Holmes began his inspection, and, knowing what I did of his methods, I stayed where I was, only daring to brace my hands on either side of the doorframe and lean forward over the threshold to study parts of the room in greater detail.

  The room’s basic setup was the same, but the walls had been painted lilac and decorated with puffy white clouds and plastic glow in the dark stars, placed seemingly at random, and the bed raised to within a few feet of the ceiling so that a short ladder was needed to reach it. Ribbons had been woven around its metal frame, thick black words carefully printed on each one. In the space beneath the bed stood a U-shaped work station, its area clearly divided between sewing, a home office, and a rock collection. And at the center of the work station stood a chair with a bowl of fruit painted on its seat and a small, brilliantly red pillow resting against one of its legs.

  The sewing station had an old-fashioned sewing machine on it, a half finished project draped over it, and drawers filled with a carefully organized array of small boxes, spools of brightly colored thread and ribbon, and neatly folded lengths of fabric.

  The center work station was improbably neat and tidy.

  The last arm of the desk was filled with chunks of rock of various sizes and colors, all carefully arranged into a grid and according to a system perhaps known only to their owner. Its drawers contained more rock specimens and a data pad filled with technical manuals for mining equipment and trade publications in the areas of astrophysics and astrogeology.

  Past the desk, it was nearly impossible to see the window’s scarlet curtains, never mind reaching them. It seemed likely that the curtains had been drawn once, rarely thought of since then, and even more rarely dusted.

  In an emergency, the room’s occupant would have had to knock the rocks to the floor, eel out between the desktop and the bottom of the bed, and fall head first onto the fire escape. Only a small child would have had any chance of success, and a child might not have been able to reach the window sash from the desktop.

  Crammed between the side of the bed and the wall was the closet. Its door was hanging open, and, from what I could see, most of its contents seemed to be strewn across the floor. Only a single purple dress hung from the bar in the closet. At the bottom of the closet there was a tall stack of neatly folded gray or brown jumpsuits, most liberally stained from frequent exposure to grease and what I could only guess was space dirt, although Sherlock Holmes no doubt knew at a glance what it was and where it had originated. There was also a pair of black high heeled boots and a basket filled with paints and brushes. On the shelf over the empty clothes rack was a series of boxes, including a jewelry box.

  Clothes, no doubt in varying states of cleanliness, a pair of sneakers, flip-flops, and at least two pairs of battered work boots filled the narrow strip of floor space. It was obvious to me that Miss Helen Stoner preferred bright colors, floral prints, and bold patterns. She seemed to possess a particular fondness for stripes and polka dots, especially when they were combined in the same article of clothing. Between wrinkled fabric and shoes, I could see snippets of the plush indigo carpet.

  The sheer amount of stuff crammed into the space was amazing. Since coming to Mars, I had only once met someone so determined to own things, and his belongings frequently ended up all over the recreation area that was meant to be shared by all of the Tommy Hudson’s passengers.

  “Are you finished with the other rooms?” inquired Miss Stoner from her place beside me. She showed not a speck of embarrassment at the deplorable conditions under which she lived.

  “Yes.”

  “Will it destroy any evidence if I clean up a bit? And maybe see to the plants?”

  Holmes, who was carefully going through the detritus on the floor, absently flapped a hand at her. “Do whatever you like anywhere but here. Do not set foot in here.”

  “Understood,” said Miss Stoner crisply.

  Bemused, I watched as she collected laundry and detergent before disappearing out the front door. When she returned, Helen Stoner set the little vacuum bot loose in Julia’s bedroom and began cleaning out the refrigerator.

  I began to feel awkward. Holmes and
Miss Stoner were both busy with their respective tasks, while I did nothing productive. The quickest way to remedy that feeling was make myself useful, so I returned the pillows and bedding to their respective storage cubes then found myself conscripted to take the bag of spoiled food down to the appropriate recycling receptacle.

  In short order, the refrigerator was clean, the kitchen scrubbed, and the bathroom scoured. Miss Stoner left to move the laundry from the washer to the dryer, and I took the opportunity to check on Holmes’s progress. Just as I reached the doorframe, Sherlock Holmes exclaimed, “Aha! Come and look at this, Watson!” and turned to show me a neat little square that he had cut out of the carpet.

  “Holmes,” I cried, appalled. “What will your client say?”

  “That it is a small price to pay for finally achieving forward momentum in her sister’s case,” Holmes snapped. “Look at it, Watson! Can you believe that no less than three people have trod on it?”

  I most certainly could believe it. However, I obediently leaned forward to gaze upon my friend’s discovery with what I hoped was the proper amount of awe and curiosity.

  “What is it?” I asked, genuinely stumped.

  It looked like a tiny blob of clear plastic, maybe a millimeter or two across, that had melted on the carpet. To me, it looked rather like a misplaced blob of hot glue. In Miss Helen Stoner’s bedroom, I could believe it. The blob certainly didn’t look like anything important.

  “It is my first clue,” Holmes said impressively.

  “Yes, but what is it?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Holmes admitted with a small grimace and, considering the circumstances, an overabundance of dignity. “But in the entire room, it is the only thing that doesn’t belong here. And when I discover what it is and how it came to be among the fibers of Miss Stoner’s carpet, then I will be that much closer to discovering what happened to the sister that night.”

  “Someone – probably Julia Stoner herself – could have tracked it in.”

  “And then not noticed when it spontaneously combusted, burning at such high temperatures that it melted and became permanently affixed to the carpet?” Holmes demanded impatiently. “Unlikely.”

  It seemed, as Holmes said, rather unlikely, but I nevertheless tried to imagine circumstances under which such a thing might happen. I failed. Holmes waited patiently for the return of my attention before declaring, “Do you see now? This is our first clue, Watson. Where is Miss Stoner?”

  “Attending to her laundry,” I answered. “She should be back soon, though.”

  “Excellent! A few minutes, and we shall be done too. Hold this for me, would you, old man?”

  And so saying, Holmes passed me his clue, now sealed in an evidence bag, before clambering up the metal ladder into the unmade bed. As I watched, he poked about in the bedding and peered into the vent above it for mere moments before abruptly abandoned the bed with a sudden, vigorous energy. Holmes was practically cheerful when he requested my help in rescuing the desk chair from the disorder that it was mired in, adding, “And do try not to step on anything important.”

  “I shall endeavor to do my best, but I make no guarantees.”

  “I accept your terms. Look out for the music box!”

  By virtue of working together, we managed to free the chair and its little red cushion from the mess without breaking anything. And by the time that Miss Stoner returned from the laundry room, we had lowered the table in the main room and positioned the storage cubes as seats on either side of it. At the head of the table stood the only real chair and its cushion, which Holmes had claimed for himself while I made the coffee. On seeing us waiting for her at the table, Miss Stoner helped herself to a cup of coffee and joined us.

  “Have you discovered anything?” she asked eagerly, her gloved hands tight around the coffee mug.

  “A few things,” Holmes said vaguely. “I would like you to take us around and introduce us to your neighbors as prospective renters. Make certain to mention that we will have your old room and that you will take your sister’s. Tonight, we will all stay in your bedroom. You will go to sleep, and we shall keep watch for the danger.”

  Miss Stoner’s protests were immediate and vociferous, forcing Holmes to add severely, “Remember that you put yourself entirely in my hands. Have you changed your mind?”

  The woman regarded Holmes for several moments, her eyes narrowed. She tapped her forefinger twice on the table, and then nodded. “I regret nothing. I shall do as you say, Mr. Holmes.”

  She lifted her cup of coffee to her mouth with a steady hand. If Helen Stoner felt any nerves at the prospect of tonight’s activities, I could not see them.

  Chapter 05

  After we finished our coffee, Miss Stoner did as Holmes had instructed. She took us around the building, ostensibly trying to sell us on it as she made it generally known that we were her prospective boarders.

  “Boarders?” repeated the neighborhood beekeeper, her surprise evident. Older and slow moving, she lived in a ground floor apartment. She sketched a second glance over Holmes and me, her blue eyes sharp, before returning her attention to Helen Stoner. The expression on her weathered face softened. “It must be difficult.”

  Miss Stoner nodded. “There’s the mortgage, of course, but the apartment is just so lonely without her. I’ve been staying in capsule hotels since – since it happened. I think having new people make new noises around the old place will help a lot. And I’m going to switch rooms. I’ll take her room, and they’ll have my old room. So that’ll be different too.”

  “I understand,” murmured the beekeeper. Taking Helen Stoner’s hand in her own, she gave it a gentle squeeze. “Let Yoko and I know if there’s anything that we can do for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Helen Stoner, her free hand coming to rest on top of the older woman’s gnarled one.

  We met most of the first floor neighbors, visited the gym, and rescued Helen Stoner’s laundry from the laundry room before briefly returning to her apartment.

  “The entire second and third floors belong to a retired civil engineer,” explained Miss Stoner as we followed her up the stairs. “He converted them into a series of micro-apartments. There are between fifty and a hundred people living on each floor, depending on whether the micro-apartments on it are being rented as singles or doubles. People move in and out of there all the time, so there’s no point in getting to know anyone on those floors. But I’ll introduce you to everyone that I know on the fourth and fifth floors. And I’ll show you our floor’s communal kitchen. Each floor has its own kitchen, and you won’t be welcome in any of the others. Oh! And there are a couple of lovely little tables on the roof for socializing, a barbeque, and some really amazing clotheslines. I’ll show you those as well.”

  When we finished nosing around the building, Holmes shepherded us back to Miss Stoner’s apartment and then left, saying, “There are certain avenues of inquiry that I prefer to investigate on my own. And I might poke around a bit on the second and third floors. I shall try to be back by dinnertime. And feel free to do as you wish with the second bedroom. I have finished with it.”

  As soon as the front door shut behind Holmes, Miss Stoner retreated to her bedroom where she began a valiant effort to organize her things, starting with the clothes on the floor. When I began to collect the shoes, Helen Stoner dropped the laundry bag and took them from me.

  “I’d rather that you didn’t help with this,” she said as she turned to put them in the closet. “But I’d really appreciate it if you washed the sheets and pillowcases. I’ll send the duvet out later.”

  “I can manage that,” I said as allowed her to fill my arms with the aforementioned sheets and pillowcases. “What about your sister’s bedding?”

  “The police still have them. I should probably see about claiming them at some point.”

  “Well, if you need me for anything…”

  “I’ll call,” she promised, then politely ushered me out of the room.
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br />   I trundled the bedding down to the washers in the basement then returned to the apartment to find two bulging laundry bags piled against the wall outside of Helen Stoner’s bedroom. Looking in, I found Helen Stoner stuffing yet more clothes into a tote bag. She had already removed the worst of the debris from the floor to the desk, closet, and laundry bags.

  Looking up at me, she asked directly, “Did one of you cut a square out of the carpet?”

  “Holmes needed it for something,” I said vaguely. “If you don’t mind, I thought I’d log into the medical network for a bit.”

  “I’ll try to be quiet.” Miss Stoner eyed me speculatively for a moment. “Military grade implants?”

  “Yes. Until recently, I was a naval doctor.”

  She smiled briefly and nodded before turning back to her work.

  Leaving her to it, I went to pour myself another cup of coffee before claiming the chair with the red cushion as my own. Once I was comfortable, I used my implants to access Nerio’s health network.