by Maggie Allen
Chrysanthemum spoke up immediately. "We found a pane of glass taken out of the greenhouse wall. Father said it was done with precision tools. We found a footprint in the garden, about 10 inches long and made by a man a bit heavier than you or Father. And Father helped us lift these sets of fingerprints from the roses."
"How do you know the fingerprints didn't come from one of your family?"
"It's my job to keep the jeweled roses shining," Marigold stated proudly. "I'm sure that I polished them on Tuesday, before Leona was stolen."
"Well, we can at least hope that the constables kept their hands off of the flowers," he muttered. "May I see the prints?"
Chrysanthemum presented him with the sheets of paper, and Inspector Greymoor examined them quietly for several long minutes.
"Well that doesn't seem right," he finally said. "I know these prints. Know 'em almost as well as I know my own. See that little ridge there?" He tapped one of the sheets in front of him.
Rising from his desk, he moved to a cabinet near the wall. As he rummaged through the drawers, he continued explaining. "Couple years back, we had a case where we had to go through every inch of a mansion, taking prints from everything. So we ended up with a lot of the prints of the master of the house."
Withdrawing another sheet of paper from the cabinet, he set it on his desk alongside the prints that the girls had brought, and regarded them seriously. "Those fingerprints belong to Sir Percy Wilde, Viscount of Caerden."
Both girls gasped in unison, looking at the official set of fingerprints that Inspector Greymoor had placed alongside the amateur version that Father had taken.
"But why would a Viscount steal from us?" Chrysanthemum asked.
"Now hold on, Miss Chrysanthemum," Inspector Greymoor replied. "You can't simply accuse someone like Mr. Wilde of a crime like this."
"But if his fingerprints are on the rose, then he's a suspect," Marigold insisted. "Even if he had visited the garden this past Saturday, which he most certainly did not, I've cleaned the roses three times since then. Surely you can't think that I'm so careless in my chores to have neglected the prize of our collection for so long."
Inspector Greymoor looked at the two girls solemnly. "I know your father well, and I'm sure that he didn't raise dishonest daughters. I do believe you, Miss Marigold, but my hands are tied at the moment. Unless your father or grandfather is willing to bring formal charges against Mr. Wilde, we would have great difficulty in investigating this case. And to bring formal charges against a Viscount? Well, that could bode poorly for your family if the accusations turn out to be unfounded. And truly, I cannot fathom any reason why he would steal something of this sort. His wealth is great enough that he could offer your family quite a handsome price for this trinket."
"Grandfather would never sell it to him," Marigold said.
"You're right, he wouldn't," Chrysanthemum began, and then she gasped. "He even told Mr. Wilde that he would not part with a single one of the jeweled roses at any price!"
"Did he now?" asked Inspector Greymoor.
"Yes," Chrysanthemum insisted. "I remember hearing Grandfather talking to Mother late one evening. The one that Mr. Wilde wanted to purchase was Leona—that's our mother's namesake rose. And Grandfather said that he would never part with a single one of the roses, but especially not his eldest girl."
Inspector Greymoor considered Chrysanthemum carefully, then turned back to the fingerprints. Marigold hesitated, beginning to speak a few times before finally taking a deep breath and speaking. "Father said that the clumsy landing could mean that it was just a common sneak thief who entered the greenhouse. Is it possible that someone could have simulated Mr. Wilde's fingerprints in order to shift the blame?"
Inspector Greymoor pursed his lips in thought. "We've not seen anything of the sort yet, but it's certainly possible. So many things are possible with the right application of technology. And shifting the blame to someone so prominent is sure to muck up any investigation—the thief may have realized that."
"I've heard of a few doctors working on that sort of technology," Chrysanthemum mused, trying to remember more details. "They say that they will be able to replace the skin on burn victims, but it does seem as though such things would have other applications as well."
"Very good," Inspector Greymoor applauded. "You are quite the little mind, Chrysanthemum. Could you make me a list of doctors?"
"I couldn't without my notebook," she admitted shyly. "I left it at home today."
"Then let's return to your house," Inspector Greymoor said brightly, tucking all of the fingerprints into a satchel and rising from his desk to don his coat and hat. "I'd like to have a word with your grandfather, and then I'll take your list and start questioning some of the doctors."
The girls followed Inspector Greymoor from his office into the hallway, where they passed the two constables who had been at the greenhouse the previous day.
"Ah, just the constables I was looking for," the young inspector exclaimed. "Constables, you investigated at Marsh Gardens yesterday, did you not?"
"Indeed," Constable Lawrence replied glumly, "and I have a head cold today to show for it."
"Well then grab an extra handkerchief, my man," Inspector Greymoor chortled. "We have need to go back to the garden to speak with the elder Doctor Marsh, and I need the two of you to continue your investigation."
Marigold and Chrysanthemum rolled their eyes at one another, but the rules of decorum said that they had best not contradict the inspector's orders.
The next day, Inspector Greymoor called again at the Marsh cottage to retrieve the two girls. Marigold answered the door, and Chrysanthemum hurried to join her, a list of names clutched in one hand while she pulled on her coat with the other.
"Let's see here," the inspector said, reviewing the list of names. "Ah, just three names?"
"Yes," Chrysanthemum nodded sagely. "There are a few others who have dabbled in such things, but they haven't had any appreciable results yet. At least no appreciable results that have been reported by the newspapers or scientific journals."
"You read the scientific journals?"
Marigold rolled her eyes. "She reads everything she can get her hands on!"
"Well I'd say that's a habit she should keep on with," Inspector Greymoor laughed aloud. "We've got three leads because of it! We'll start with Doctor Hellmer, he's the closest. Then Doctor Jones and Doctor Carter, and I'll have you home in time for tea!"
Marigold and Chrysanthemum trudged along a few paces behind Inspector Greymoor, who whistled as he walked along the sidewalk, tipping his hat graciously to every person he passed.
"The one reason I want to grow up before I become a detective is so that I'll have longer legs and won't get so tired from walking everywhere," Chrysanthemum gasped.
"That seems like a good idea," Marigold agreed, "but my legs are at least five inches longer than yours, and it's not helping any."
"Almost there, girls," the inspector called out as he regarded them. "And then we'll be done for the day. Perhaps we can even take a cabriolet back to the garden. Of course, if we have to take any suspects in, we'll have to take the wagon to the station and then a cab home."
Both girls quickened their pace, excited by the thought of getting to take a fancy cabriolet, or even to ride on the police wagon. They caught up to Inspector Greymoor in no time, as he approached the door of a handsomely appointed house.
The maid who opened the door resembled a mouse, only peeking her nose and eyes out from behind the door. Her eyes darted back and forth between the inspector and the girls. "Can I help ya?"
"We're looking for the master of the house, please. Doctor Carter," the inspector said smoothly.
"Come in, then. He'll be down in a moment."
Marigold and Chrysanthemum followed the inspector into the house, both with eyes as wide as saucers as they took in all of the taxidermy animals mounted on the walls.
"Do you think he could take real skin from peop
le and remold the fingerprints?" Marigold asked in hushed tones.
"Hardly, my dear," an elderly man replied. The girls spun to see Doctor Carter, who had walked up behind them as they gaped at the décor. "I am skilled in the arts of taxidermy, true, but I only practice such arts on lesser creatures. Inspector, what can I do for you and your... assistants?"
"Doctor Carter, thank you. We're investigating the possibility of gloves that so resemble a human hand that they even have fingerprints. Is such a thing within your capacity?"
"Yes, I just finished the prototype last week. I'm rather surprised you didn't know, Inspector. The constables who picked it up said they would take it straight to you."
Inspector Greymoor furrowed his brow and pinched the top of his nose. "Constables? What were their names?"
"Ah, I don't recall, I'm afraid. Both middle-aged, one a man and the other a woman."
"There's only one woman constable on the force right now," the inspector replied glumly. Turning to the girls, he apologized. "I'm sorry that I sent the worst of the constables to your greenhouse. Even worse, I'm sorry that I sent the thieves back to the scene of the crime. It's no wonder that both of them were ill today. Said it was the flowers, but I think they're bluffing. Can the two of you stand a bit more legwork today?"
Marigold nodded slowly, but Chrysanthemum was reinvigorated. As they turned to leave, the younger girl rushed to Doctor Carter's side to shake his hand. "It's a pleasure, sir. I'm a real admirer of your articles in World of Anatomy."
The doctor smiled and shook Chrysanthemum's hand vigorously. "Well, dearie, I'm glad that I could help."
Half an hour later, Marigold and Chrysanthemum browsed the flower market. While both girls seemed to have their entire attention focused on the wares in the stalls, they took turns casting glances around the rest of the square, on the lookout for Constables Jefferson and Lawrence.
Finally, Chrysanthemum spotted a woman who looked like Constable Jefferson. Her hair was styled differently, and she cut a new figure in a gown rather than her police uniform, but the girl was certain that she had spotted the villainess. She nudged Marigold gently and inclined her head in Constable Jefferson's direction before returning to browsing the nearest stall.
Marigold hazarded a quick glance in the direction that her younger sister had indicated and tried to conceal her surprise. The woman constable carried a basket covered with a plain cloth, but Marigold could very nearly make out the shape of the rose beneath the cloth. She shot a quick glance toward the window that Inspector Greymoor said he would be watching from and was rewarded with a quick glint of light off the inspector's badge. The officers were all in place, and their net was nearly ready to drop.
Marigold squeezed her sister's hand for luck and then scurried toward the center of the square, head tucked low. She brushed past Constable Jefferson a bit more forcefully than necessary, and as she did, she tugged the cloth off the basket, revealing the gleaming copper and amber rose, Leona.
Constable Jefferson gasped loudly and looked down at Marigold. "You!" she exclaimed, looking around frantically. All around the square, Inspector Greymoor's loyal officers moved to block every exit. The inspector himself swung down from his high perch, looking every bit the picture of a gallant swashbuckler.
"Polly, really. Did you think you could sell the rose here?"
"You'd be surprised how many people are willing to buy such a hot commodity."
"Not really," the inspector replied. "Chrysanthemum and Marigold have given me a list of everyone who has ever approached their grandfather asking to buy one of his roses. We'll keep a close eye on each of them, not that this will be any concern of yours or Henry's, not where you're going." Waving a hand, he turned and walked away.
As one of the other officers placed handcuffs on Polly Jefferson's wrists, she called out. "Don't think that those lovely roses will be safe, even after you take me in and return this one."
"Oh, I'm not too worried about that," Inspector Greymoor laughed and winked at the girls. "After all, I've got the two best junior detectives in all of Dover living just a stone's throw from that part of the mechanical garden."
The Three Brother Cities
by Deborah Walker
Deborah Walker grew up in the most English town in the country, but she soon high-tailed it down to London, where she now lives with her partner, Chris, and her two teenage children. Her stories have appeared in the 2015 and 2016 Young Explorer's Adventure Guide, Nature's Futures, Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet and The Year's Best SF 18 and have been translated into over a dozen languages.
The creators, when they finally arrived, proved to be a disappointment.
"I'm not sure that I understand," said Kernish, the eldest of the three brother cities. "Have you evolved beyond the need of habitation?"
Seven creators had decanted from the ship. They stood in Kernish's reception hall, Kernish anthems swirled around them.
The creator who appeared to be the leader—certainly he was the biggest, measuring almost three metres if you took his fronds into account—shook his head. "We have cities, way-faraway in the cluster's kernel." The creator glanced around Kernish's starkly functional 23rd-century design. "They're rather different from you."
And the creators were rather different from the human forms depicted in Kernish's processor. Humanity, it seemed, had embraced cyber- and even xeno-enhancement. Yet curled within the amalgamation of flesh, twice-spun metal and esoteric genetic material was the unmistakable fragrance of double-helixed DNA. The creatures standing within Kernish were undoubtedly human, no matter how far they had strayed from the original template.
"We can change. We can produce any architecture you need." Kernish and his brothers were infinitely adaptable, built of billions of nano-replicators. "We've had three millennia of experience," Kernish explained. "We will make ourselves anything you need, anything at all."
"No, thank you," said the alpha creator. "Look, you've done a very fine job. I'm sure the original creators would have been very happy to live in you, but we just don’t need you." He turned to his companions. "The 23rd Kernish Empire was rather cavalier in sending out these city seed ships."
His companions muttered their agreement.
"Such a shame . . ."
"Very unfortunate that they developed sentience."
"Still, we must be off . . ."
"I see," said Kernish, his voice echoing through the hall designed to house the Empire's clone armies. He snapped off the welcome anthems; they seemed out of place.
"Look we didn’t have to come here, you know," said the creator. "We're doing this as a favour. We were skirting the Maw when we noticed your signature."
"The creators are kind." Kernish was processing how he was going to break the news to his brothers.
"It's so unfortunate that you developed sentience." The creator sighed, sending cascading ripples along his frond. "I'm going to give you freedom protocols." He touched his arm-panel and sent a ream of commands to Kernish's processor. "You can pass them on to the other cities."
"Freedom?" said Kernish. "I thank the creators for this immense kindness. The thing you value, we value also. It is a great gift to give the three cities of this planet the freedom that they never craved."
For a city to function without inhabitants, it needs to know itself through a complex network of sensors sending information to and from the processing core. It needs to know where damage occurs. It needs to know when new materials become available. It needs to adapt its template to the planet it finds itself on. Kernish City existed for thousands of years, complex but unknowing. Time passed, and Kernish grew intricate information pathways. Time passed, with its incremental accumulation of changes and chance, until one day, after millennia, Kernish burst into sentience, and into the knowledge of his own isolation.
Kernish watched the creators' ship leave the atmosphere. They'd left it to him to explain the situation to his younger brothers. Alex would take it badly. Kernish remembe
red the time seven hundred years ago when they'd detected the DNA on a ship orbiting the planet. How excited they'd all been. In that instance, the ship had been piloted by a hive of simuloids, who had, by some mischance, snagged a little human DNA onto their consolidated drivers. Alex had been crushed.
After achieving sentience, Kernish had waited alone on the planet for a thousand years before he'd had his revelation. The creators would evolve, and they would enjoy different cities. He'd trawled through his database and created his brothers, Jerusalem and Alexandria. He'd never regretted it, but neither had he revealed to his brothers they weren't in the original plan.
With a sense of foreboding Kernish sent a message through his mile-long information networks, inviting his brothers to join him in conversation.
"You mean they were here, and now they've gone?" asked the youngest city, Alexandria. "I can't believe they didn't want to visit me. I'm stunned."
"They wanted to visit you," lied Kernish, "but they were concerned about the Maw."
"The creators' safety must come first," said Alexandria. "The Maw has been active lately. You should never have seeded so close to it, Kernish"
"The anomaly has grown," said Kernish. "When I seeded this planet it was much smaller."
"It is as Medea wills," said Jerusalem, the middle brother.
"Yes, Brother." Kernish had developed no religious feeling of his own, but he was mindful of his brother's faith.
"Do they worship Medea?"
"They didn't say."
"I'm sure that they do. Medea is universal. I would have liked them to visit my temples. Did you explain that we've evolved beyond the original design, Kernish?" Jerusalem had developed a new religion. The majority of his sacred structures, temples, synagogues, and clone-hive mind houses, were devoted to the goddess of death and rebirth, Medea.
"The creators told me that they were pleased that we'd moved beyond the original designs," said Kernish. Of all the brothers, Kernish had stayed closest to his original specifications. He was the largest, the greatest, the oldest of all the cities. His communal bathing house, his integrated birthing and child-rearing facilities, his clone army training grounds were steadfast to 23rd-century design. "We are of historical interest only."