LotS/The Story/Because I'm the Wanderer/The Butler Did It
The Butler Did It
"The butler did it!"
You whirl round, slashing your arm through the air like the blade of a scythe and punctuating the sentence by transfixing the named individual with a pointing finger. You're somewhat taken aback when an ominous, dramatic musical score sounds at that exact instant -- underscoring your words with its 'dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn'. You sweep the room with your gaze, but there's no sign of its origin.
"You triggered the ship's ambiance systems," the robotic manservant explains. "It believed you were performing a denunciation."
"Oh..."
Your pointing finger remains frozen in place for several seconds, like an unsheathed weapon denied the tasting of blood and now left hovering in awkward indecision. The butler glances at it for a long moment. Then he meets your gaze, somehow managing to convey the full measure of his disapproval without marring his aspect of outward politeness.
You withdraw the offending digit.
"As I was saying... The butler did it." This time you refrain from flourishing gestures. "He's the one who invited me aboard."
A few of the lounge's dubiously dressed occupants frown. Others roll their eyes. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all...
"This is the Mysterious Murder, requesting aid from any nearby spacecraft. We've had an... unfortunate incident... and are in need of assistance. The matter would most properly be addressed by someone with a previous background in law enforcement."
That was the message that came over the Silver Shadow's communications system, floating on a suave and sophisticated accent that didn't quite manage to conceal the speaker's perturbation. It hadn't been directed at you in particular. You were invisible to the other vessel, as to anyone else who might have been nearby. Rather it was an eloquent and enigmatic cry for help, delivered as though to the galaxy at large.
It succeeded in capturing your attention, at any rate. You accepted the visual feed which accompanied the audio. A robot appeared on the screen, clad in an immaculate butler's outfit of the kind you'd seen on flesh and blood servants at Novocastrian functions.
"I'm sorry," you said, opening the channel at your end, "did I hear that right? Mysterious Murder?"
"Your hearing was indeed accurate, madam."
"That's the name of your ship?"
"Quite so. I must commend madam on grasping the obvious with such masterful aplomb." He gave a faint sigh before he continued, bespeaking the air of one who'd been forced to explain that curious matter of onomastics innumerable times in the past. "This vessel is what one might refer to as a... novelty ship. A place of entertainment. It hosts murder mystery events, in which guests are invited to play the roles of detectives and solve a simulated homicide."
"I see... So, what's the problem?"
"I fear that it's a rather delicate matter. May I ask to whom I'm speaking? The communication console appears unable to identify your spacecraft."
"That's a rather delicate matter as well."
"Ah..."
A few moments elapsed in silence, pregnant with the contemplations of two individuals pondering their secrets and the navigation of warring discretions.
"If you want someone in law enforcement, try one of the emergency channels," you said. "You'll have better luck that way."
"Regrettably, that course of action is unfeasible. I'm not at liberty to inform the duly constituted authorities. However, there's nothing to prevent me from seeking aid from a private individual who may happen to have a background in such a profession."
Things were becoming more curious by the minute. At that point, you just had to get involved.
"Your accent... Novocastrian, I believe?"
"Quite correct, madam. The Mysterious Murder is registered as a Novocastrian vessel, though of course my own possession of the accent is the result of technology rather than nurture."
"One moment..."
You closed the channel, and spent some minutes sending another transmission. It proved fruitful. A short time after that, you heard from the Mysterious Murder and its mechanical majordomo again.
"We've just received a communication from Lady Hollister, a figure for whom my late master had the utmost respect. Whilst the good lady was reticent about identifying you, madam, she assured me that you're an individual of both considerable talent and boundless irreproachability. In fact, she went on to apply numerous unflattering epithets to any hypothetical parties who might say anything to the contrary."
That made you smile. Lady Hollister had always been a loyal friend. According to unconfirmed reports from Novocastria -- political rumors regurgitated on broadcasts to fill tiny slivers of the perpetual news cycle -- she even went so far as to knock Edmund Rochester spinning when he traduced you in the parliamentary bar.
"Perhaps you would care to come aboard the Mysterious Murder, madam?"
A short while later, you stood in a lobby that might have been cut wholesale from a Novocastrian stately home. It was rendered in sumptuous decadence, emulating and imitating an architectural style from Earth which the butler told you was called 'Victorian'.
"Lord Ponsonby was a devotee of detective fiction from what he considered to be the heyday of the art," he explained. "A period of time encompassing portions of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. When he attained considerable success in his business dealings, he chose to use his newfound wealth to have the Mysterious Murder commissioned. The holo-tabloids said the most scandalous and derisory things when they learned of his desire, causing my late master to inflict bodily injury on several ill-bred journalists.
"For over thirty years, this ship was host to gatherings of the kind I described to you. Guests would arrive in the guise of their favorite sleuths from the portion of literary history favored by Lord Ponsonby, and proceed to match their wits against the various ingenious crimes he had us enact. Alas, his lordship passed away a few months ago. This is the first such event to take place without his august presence."
"If he's dead, who arranged all this?" you asked.
"I did, madam. His lordship was most explicit in his last will and testament. He instructed that murder mysteries continue to be held aboard this vessel, conducted according to the very rules he'd established, and that the costs be paid from the wealth of his estate."
You nodded. It seemed simple enough. Eccentric, perhaps -- but simple.
"So what went wrong?"
"There's been a murder, madam."
"Isn't that supposed to happen?"
"A real murder, madam. A genuine act of homicidal violence. One of the guests was found in his stateroom, slain. The gentleman had been stabbed through the heart."
"Has the killer been identified?"
"No, madam. But the list of suspects isn't extensive. All but four of the guests were in the main lounge when the crime appears to have taken place, enjoying a pleasant soiree. And all the servants have likewise been accounted for. Alibies are to be found in abundance."
"Four including the victim?"
"That's correct, madam."
"Could it have been suicide?"
"The weapon had been removed from the body. Though I confess to being no detective myself, I believe this happenstance indicates murder."
"So why not just call the authorities, and ask them to investigate?"
"While he lived, Lord Ponsonby was firm in his desire to avoid further embarrassment in the media. He therefore had all his guests sign legally binding documents in which they agreed that... to express it in colloquial terms... what happens on the Mysterious Murder stays on the Mysterious Murder. Even when two distinguished members of parliament came to blows in a stateroom following a drunken romantic tryst, the matter was never spoken of beyond this vessel."
"But Lord Ponsonby's dead..."
"Nevertheless, the terms of his will are abundantly clear. The rule must still be adhered to, and his posthumous reputation safeguarded. That was the source of my conundrum, which your presence here should solve. Given Lady Hollister's high opinion of your abilities, perhaps you'll be able to interview the three suspects and determine which of them carried out the crime."
"Wait... What about the other guests? If they're all amateur detectives, couldn't they solve the murder?"
"I did consider that possibility, madam, but it seemed... undesirable. The thought of a dozen budding sleuths fighting over clues, getting in one another's way, and clashing their -- if I may be so bold as to say -- immense egos together... Over the past decades I've seen what tends to result from such a state of affairs. I don't believe it would be most conducive to dealing with the problem at hand."
"I see. I don't suppose the ship's cameras..."
The butler gave a small cough.
"No cameras?"
"None, sir. Lord Ponsonby felt that such modern methods of crime-solving would be entirely out of place on a vessel such as the Mysterious Murder."
"And I suppose DNA testing of the crime scene..."
Another cough.
"Lord Ponsonby-"
"I think I get the picture," you replied.
"His lordship was most ardent that crimes be solved using methods of detection appropriate for the golden age of sleuthing of which he was so fond."
You sighed.
"Perhaps if I waterboarded the three suspects..."
The butler's gasp of horror reminded you that some of the methods you've employed in the service of the Sian Empire aren't necessarily suitable for every situation.
"Fine! I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you, sir! I assure you that I'm most grateful for your assistance."
"First, I need to see the crime scene."
"Actually, it would be advisable to see the other guests first. They're waiting for us in the lounge. When I announced that I was bringing in an 'outsider', some of them became rather... undignified in their remonstrance. I hope that by speaking with them you might put their minds at rest and prevent any unpleasantness which could interfere with the smooth running of your investigation."
"If you insist. Lead the way."
The butler paused for a long moment. His face was the product of splendid engineering. It displayed his sense of awkwardness with as much eloquence as any organic visage could have managed.
"Madam, I fear there's something you should know before meeting our guests. You may find them rather... Bizarre."
"Bizarre? Men and women who spend their leisure time dressing up as old-fashioned detectives so they can solve made-up crimes? Surely not..."
The butler's lips twitched in the faintest of smiles, as though appreciative of your sarcasm.
"I'm afraid that it goes well beyond that. You see, in accordance with Lord Ponsonby's edicts, and indeed a general sense of propriety, our guests spend the entire duration of their time on the vessel in-character. They behave as if they were the literary figures they portray."
"You're joking?"
"Alas, no. I assure you that under normal circumstances the effect is most gratifying, and adds a certain ambiance to the affair. However, it may prove... inconvenient... given the seriousness of the situation at hand."
"So I'm going to be talking to a bunch of Victorian detectives?"
"Well, that description wouldn't apply to all our guests. But, to a certain degree... Yes. With the exception of a few necessities, they will retain their adopted personas."
"Necessities?"
"A genuine lady or gentleman from the nineteenth century might be expected to express some shock at encountering a robot manservant, or one of our alien guests. Lord Ponsonby was content for such things to be glossed over."
"Alien guests?"
"Yes, madam. A few guests belonging to alien species have attended these murder mysteries over the years -- those who share his lordship's love of classic detective fiction in spite of their vastly different cultural backgrounds. In fact, one of the three suspects is a Snuuth."
Upon seeing that he'd given you enough to consider for the moment, the butler led you off to the lounge.
"Preposterous!"
"Unseemly!"
"Quite absurd!"
"An affront!"
"Who is this person, anyway? Some sort of ruffian from the look of her!"
These and several other expressions of disapproval, outrage, surprise, and disdain bombard you from all quarters. For a bunch of people dressed like fools, the Mysterious Murder's guests are very judgmental...
"Ladies and gentlemen," the butler says, "if I may request a modicum of calm..."
"Calm?" splutters a man in a yellow-brown jacket, sporting an iron-grey moustache. "Calm? A man lies dead, and a friend of mine is being dishonored by base suspicion. Dash it all, man -- does this sound like a time for calm?"
At this pronouncement, there's a general intake of breath -- which you interpret as a replenishing of oxygen supplies before a second volley of discontent. You wince, preparing to weather the storm. But the barrage doesn't come. Instead there's a soft, almost imperceptible cough. The impending torrent dies on their lips. All heads turn to regard a slim gentleman at the back of the room.
He was silent while the others shouted, content simply to stare at you with a steady and enigmatic gaze. Thus you now hear his voice for the first time, and when he speaks it's with soothing dignity enveloped in a French accent.
"My friends," he says, "I think this lady is more suited to the task than you might imagine."
"Monsieur Dupin," says the man in the yellow-brown jacket, "surely you're not willing to accept this upstart's presence here?"
But there's a hint of uncertainty in his voice now. And most of the others are studying you with newfound interest -- as though trying to see what this Dupin fellow saw in you.
"Have you ever dealt with a murderer before?" a young man asks.
The guests' scrutiny intensifies. Dozens of eyes scan your face. As many ears wait to hear what you'll say. Now that you have an opening, the right answer might forestall a fresh eruption of disgruntlement...
You glance at the butler, remembering what he said about things on the Mysterious Murder remaining aboard the Mysterious Murder. You hope he was right.
"I was the one who brought down Colonel Mustard," you say, your eyes drifting from face to face.
"What?" The man in the yellow-brown jacket jumps to his feet. "You most certainly did not! I-"
"She's talking about the infamous Sussurran murderer, dear," an elderly woman says.
"Oh... Yes. Of course. Splendid. Jolly good show." He sits back down, looking suitably abashed.
"And I'm the one who caught Nemo, the space pirate."
You can almost hear the thoughts clicking into place inside their heads.
"That means you're..." the old woman says. "Oh."
Noiselessness flits around the lounge.
"A woman fully aware of the scope of human evil," muses a short, stumpy gentleman in the attire of a Catholic priest. "You can think like a murderer. That gives you an advantage."
Similar sentiments are murmured from other lips. It seems that you're done here... So you excuse yourself, and ask the butler to take you to the crime scene.
"Who was he?" you ask.
"Our guests' identities are-" the robot begins.
"His character, I mean."
"Sexton Blake."
"Who?"
"A British detective who was a prominent figure on the literary stage for some decades."
"Oh."
Whoever he was, he's solved his last pseudo-mystery. The wound in his chest tells the story. No need for any hard detective work there. He was stabbed through the left side of his chest, the blade passing through the jacket and waistcoat of his dark three-piece suit at an angle that would have put it through his heart. And the murderer wasn't content to leave things there. His face lies ruined, slashed at least a dozen times by what you assume was the edge of the same weapon.
"These were done after he was killed," you observe. "You can tell by the blood."
The butler says nothing. You glance up at him.
"Forgive me, madam, but Lord Ponsonby instructed me to always play the role of the detached manservant rather than the fawning, overly-impressed companion."
No other signs of damage or injury. His sleeves and hands are unblemished.
The room -- a spacious lounge and dining chamber -- is similarly unmarred, save for the blood that's soaked into the rug beneath the corpse. Its door shows no sign of having been forced, nor has anything been knocked aside. Only the dead man himself, lying on his back in the middle of the floor, provides evidence of the violence which took place there.
As a matter of course you explore the rest of the suite, but it's just a formality. Those slashes to the face... This wasn't a robbery. Sure enough, the other rooms are just as neat. They haven't been ransacked.
"What's this?" you ask.
You spot it when you return to the main room. On the lip of the stone fireplace...
"It appears to be a pile of ash, madam. Part of the aesthetic effect."
The butler indicates the larger grey heap deeper within, where a fire would burn. But those ashes are different...
"A clue!"
Once more the butler seems underwhelmed by your discovery. So you content yourself with transferring the ash to a little bag he provides and sealing it within. That accomplished, you head out into the corridor.
"I think it's time I met these suspects of yours."
Elementary, My Dear [Player Name]
![Elementary, My Dear [Player Name]](/File:LotS_Quest_z10_a4_q1.jpg)
"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to accompany you, madam?"
"Thanks, but I don't think I'll have much need for a detached manservant."
"Very good, madam."
The butler hands you the key, bows his head, turns around, and glides away in the appropriate manner of a trained (or in this case 'built') servant -- almost noiseless, just audible enough to prevent his employers from engaging in embarrassing indiscretions while he's nearby.
You pause outside the first of the doors he directed you to, hand raised in preparation for a knock. A simple matter of courtesy -- to announce your presence and make sure the man within is decent before you unlock the door and push it open. Then you remember that you're a detective, and that the door in front of you has a keyhole...
On a whim, you crouch down and put your eye to the small hole. It's purely an affectation. There are no tumblers and so forth in the wood around it. Instead the key's systems will trigger and disengage a series of electronic mechanisms. But the hole works just as well when it comes to prying into other people's affairs. And isn't that what being a detective's all about?
Based on this portion of its contents, the room beyond is a study. There's a desk across from the door, positioned beneath a large window. Sunlight pours through the glass, spilling over the dark wood and across the floor like a cascade of golden liquid. Holographic windows -- you saw them elsewhere on the ship. Designed to conceal the fact that you're on a spacecraft. These furnishings and a bookcase full of old-fashioned, leather-bound tomes are all that reward your spying. Probably not enough evidence to incriminate a man...
So you stand up and knock.
"One moment!"
The urgency in the voice, masked as it is by a veneer of friendly nonchalance, doesn't escape you. There's a sound of hurried footsteps from within. You drop back down to the keyhole. The suite's occupant, your suspect, is standing at the desk. He shoves something into one of its drawers, and closes it with a swift yet controlled motion -- careful not to let the wood make a telltale scraping noise. This accomplished, he tugs at his left shirt sleeve, neatening it and fastening it at the wrist. Then he moves across the room, out of sight once more.
"Do come in!" he says at last.
You put the key in the lock. It clicks open, issuing a counterfeit sound to match the archaic pretense.
When you open the door, the man is sitting in an armchair by the blazing fireplace, watching the dancing flames. He's wearing a long coat now, and a deerstalker hat -- a form of headwear made famous by the individual he's masquerading as, its name known to you purely because of the endless stream of movie and videogame adverts you've seen in which the renowned character sports it. His left hand holds a pipe in the corner of his mouth. A wisp of white smoke snakes upwards from its bowl.
He turns his head to face you, the gesture so casual it's hard to believe that he was darting across the room just a few moments before. If he feels any trepidation, even a hint of anxiety, it doesn't show in his intelligent, piercing eyes.
"I'm-" you begin.
He holds up his right hand, palm outward as though to bar the words that are about to tumble from your mouth.
"You're a skilled pilot, accustomed to being on military spacecraft for long periods of time. But you're also highly proficient in personal combat, well beyond the level to which it's customary to train a pilot. In particular, you're skilled in kung fu -- the Chinese form of fighting. This martial prowess was advantageous in your career as a bodyguard. You have my condolences. I see that the lady you were tasked with protecting is no longer with us. You cared about her a great deal."
Words freeze on your tongue and slip back down your throat. He's recognized you! That's the only explanation. You've been around enough psychics that you would have felt the warning signs if he'd tried to root around in your brain through psionic means. He knows who you are. But how?
You glance down at your nose.
"And you're wearing a holographic disguise," he adds.
You frown. You'd put it on so that your true identity wouldn't prove a distraction when it came to interviewing the suspects. For naught, it seems.
"Who told you?"
"No one. It was a matter of elementary deduction. Please..." He gestures at the armchair on the other side of the fire.
You sit down, mind reeling.
"You can tell a great deal about a woman from the manner in which she walks. And your stride is that of a longtime spacefarer. From the way you balance and distribute your weight, you're accustomed to navigating the corridors of a ship even in dangerous conditions -- when gravitational systems fail or the vessel is buffeted by enemy weapons fire. But the quick movements of your eyes are those of a pilot, not merely a crewman."
"Okay..." you reply, still dubious, "...but how did you know I was a bodyguard?"
"When you entered the room, you scanned it for threats in a way so natural and instinctive that it would have escaped the notice of most observers. But your instincts weren't for self-preservation. From the manner of your entry, you're used to placing yourself between a perceived threat and the person behind you. However, there are already the faintest signs of atrophy around this ingrained behavior. This leads me to conclude that your service in this capacity came to an end. And if you'll forgive me, your eyes betray a certain melancholy."
"How did you know she was a woman? That I..."
"Cared for her? Losing a woman always leaves a special mark."
He glances at a photograph on the mantelpiece. It shows an attractive girl in Victorian garb.
"And the kung fu?"
"That was perfectly evident." His gaze returns to meet yours. "During the aforementioned entry, your body was prepared to strike out at any hypothetical ambushers you might have encountered. In particular, your left arm was ready to drive against an enemy's solar plexus in the form of exaggerated straight left lunge, driven by the rear leg, more common in Chinese fighting systems. However, at the same time there was a slight motion in your right leg indicative of a potential kick should danger come from another direction instead. On its own, it may have belonged to any number of fighting arts -- such as savate. But when coupled with the nature of the punch..."
"That's amazing!"
"Watson often tells me much the same. But I fear that in the present investigation my role is that of a suspect rather than a consulting detective."
"Yes, I'm afraid so. I believe the butler has spoken to you about what happened?"
"He informed me that Sexton Blake had been murdered, and that I and two other individuals were regarded as suspects -- as the other guests had been in the main lounge for some considerable length of time when the crime was discovered."
"Exactly. Can you tell me what you were doing while the soiree was going on?"
A slight redness creeps into the detective's face, so subtle that you can't be sure it's not the effect of the fire. He glances at the photograph once more -- a gesture so swift that an ill-timed blink might have stolen it from you.
"I was working on my latest monograph." His voice betrays nothing. Perhaps you were imagining things... "It concerns the dropping of letters in a range of regional English accents from different social classes."
He leans towards the fireplace and upends his pipe, emptying out a little heap of ash. Most of it falls into the flame. But you track the descent of those ashes which go wide, falling onto the ironwork instead, with eager eyes.
"Would you like to examine it?" he asks.
"Excuse me?" you reply, wondering if he's discerned your train of thought.
"The monograph."
"No, that's quite all right."
A faint smile twitches his lips.
"Where are my manners? In the absence of my housekeeper or Watson, I suppose it falls on me to offer you a cup of tea."
"Thanks. Milk. Two sugars."
"I shan't be long."
He stands up and heads towards a doorway at the opposite end of the room. The moment he disappears from sight, you rise as well.
You make for the desk first, training and the thick, soft rug muffling your footsteps. A glimpse of Victorian London greets you through the window, of smoggy buildings and horse-drawn cabs. But you don't have a chance to drink it in at leisure. Your attention is directed elsewhere... From the movements you saw through the keyhole, he used the middle drawer -- the one above the leg space. You pull it open, taking as much care as he did when closing it. Your eyes widen.
The drawer is filled with small bottles, alongside a large leather case. You open the latter, tilting the lid up against the hinges on its upper length. It contains a fancy looking glass syringe. You close it, and grab one of the small bottles -- turning it to disclose the label. Cocaine. The great detective is a chem-abuser.
You return the bottle and close the drawer. The sound of clinking china comes from somewhere beyond the doorway. It isn't close. He's still making the tea, not bringing it in.
So you dart over to the fireplace, crouch down, and annex the spilled ash. Then you hold it up in the palm of one hand, letting it bask in the artificial sunlight, whilst pulling out the sample from the murder scene with the other.
To your intense disappointment, they don't match. Even to your untrained eye, it's clear from their color and texture that each came from a different type of tobacco. You tip your hand over the fire, disposing of the ashes from Holmes' pipe.
You're sat in the armchair when the detective returns with the tea tray, pretending to amuse yourself by gazing into the flames.
"Good tea," you say, after a sip. In truth your palate for English teas is no more refined than that of a Niflung berserker. But you felt obliged to say something complimentary.
"Brewing tea is an elementary matter of chemistry -- a field of scientific endeavor with which a man in my position has reason to be familiar."
For some time the two of you simply drink your tea and share meaningless banter. It's when you set your cup down empty on its saucer and Holmes does the same that you return to the investigation like two fighters leaving their corners at the ringing of the bell.
"What did you think of Sexton Blake?" you ask.
"His death represents a tremendous loss to our profession."
"He was good then? I hadn't heard of him before."
Holmes' eyes narrow.
"It's says very little to the credit of human civilization that one of the finest detectives in literary history has been forgotten so."
Psychological Detective
"Come in, mon amie!"
You step into a new room and, apparently, a new century. It's a large, bright chamber -- furnished in a manner that you know is archaic, yet somehow manages to seem modern and stylish compared with Holmes' Victorian apartment. Everything is neat and trim, with an abundance of straight, orderly lines supplemented by only the most obedient of curves. The term 'art deco' appears in your mind. You forget where you might have come across it or what exactly it entails. Nevertheless, it somehow seems fitting.
In this world of straight lines, the person ensconced in a red leather armchair stands out quite considerably -- an island of roundness in the middle of precise linearity. So this is the Snuuth suspect the butler told you about... He's as rotund as many of his species, his belly an impressive, mountainous bulge. His clothing is immaculate, even if it does seem comprised of enough material to create a substantial tent. The black jacket and trousers, light grey waistcoat, white shirt, and red bowtie are all perfectly pressed, brushed, laundered, or whatever verbs and treatment might best be administered to the respective articles of a gentleman's attire. You don't think you've ever laid eyes upon such a fastidious Snuuth before.
A remarkable black moustache adorns his lip, waxed into fine, glistening points that look as if they could take someone's eyes out.
"Mr. Hercule Poirot, I believe? I'm here to investigate the murder of Sexton Blake."
"Of course. I wondered how long it would be before the estimable butler, he found a woman most suitable for this unpleasant task. Between you and me, I am relieved that he did not select another member of our... how you say... little detective gang. They are charming -- especially Mademoiselle Marple -- but some of them have the ideas most confused about our profession. They become obsessed with the details most trivial, when instead one must focus on understanding the psychology of a crime."
"Um... Yes..." you reply, taken aback. You've never heard a Snuuth with that kind of accent before. The effect is quite something.
"Please, be seated," he says, indicating an identical chair opposite him, on the other side of a square table. "May I offer you a crème de cassis before we begin?"
"No, thank you. I don't think the butler would like me to drink and detect."
"A coffee perhaps?"
"Sure. Thank you."
"Bon."
You don't particularly want the drink. But you do want to see him move...
When he does so, getting up from the chair and trotting off to the kitchen, it's with surprising grace for a person of his considerable girth. You've noticed this among Snuuth before. Some of them may seem to be walking piles of fat, but they have a great deal of muscular power underneath. He could have struck the fatal blow with ease.
You explore the room while awaiting his return, inspecting the various artworks and searching for anything which might be deemed a clue. You even examine the canes and umbrellas in the stand by the door -- wondering how useful an umbrella could possibly be on a spaceship -- but find that none of them contain a hidden blade. If the murder weapon is somewhere in this apartment, it's concealed better than that.
Poirot returns with two cups of coffee, and the two of you resume your seats.
"There're a lot of French detectives onboard, aren't there?" you say.
"You are right, mon amie. Messieurs Dupin and Rouletabille, par example. But I am not among them. I, Hercule Poirot, am Belgian."
Your mind scrambles to process that information, and associate it with a proper piece of historical or geographical knowledge. But it's some seconds before anything comes to mind.
"Like the waffles?"
Poirot frowns.
"Yes... Like the 'waffles'." He says the word in the same way a prudish person might say 'whores'.
But the good humor returns to his face as he reaches over to a little side table beside his armchair and picks up a colorful cardboard box. He places this between your coffee mugs in the exact center of the larger table, adjusting it ever so slightly until the edges of box and table are precisely parallel.
"And also like the chocolates."
He opens the box, disclosing two dozen or so delectable squares, circles, and diamonds. You take one of them between thumb and forefinger out of politeness, and transfer it to your mouth. Your teeth penetrate the chocolate shell, exposing an exquisite, flavorful creaminess within. Your eyes widen. It suddenly occurs to you that your lack of knowledge concerning Belgian matters is a deficit you should remedy at greater length later on.
But for the moment, there's the small matter of the crime...
"Where were you during the soiree?"
"I was here all evening, reading a mystery novel written by my good friend, Ariadne Oliver."
"Did you know the victim?"
"I was acquainted with him. One of the breed of detective most tiresome, who believe that cases should be solved with duels -- as if fisticuffs were a proper substitute for the little grey cells!"
"The what?"
"The little grey cells! If you are to find the killer, you must exercise them! It is about the psychology, the method, the mental processes by which we may arrive at the truth."
"I see..."
He reaches into his jacket and withdraws a silver case from an inner pocket, opening it to reveal a number of tiny cigarettes. You shake your head when tilts it towards you. He removes one. It's like a toothpick in his hand.
This suspect likes to talk, you muse as he lights his cigarette and retrieves an ashtray -- which he places on the table alongside his coffee cup. Perhaps you can use that to your advantage...
"So, you didn't care much for Blake's work?"
"I most certainly did not."
"Perhaps you were glad when you learned he'd been bumped off?"
"No, mademoiselle. I do not approve of murder!"
"I should hope not. But you have to admire the murderer's cunning."
"Cunning? To stab a man through the heart and mutilate the face of his corpse? There is no cunning here! The great Hercule Poirot, he has dealt with the murders most intelligent. This is not such a person. Do you know who was the greatest murderer of all? Iago!"
"The space pirate?"
Poirot sighs.
"You do not know the works of the most excellent Shakespeare? My friend Hastings would be distraught to hear the fruits of his countryman neglected! Iago was a murderer who manipulated others into committing his crimes. He whispered here and there, using his words to fill people with dangerous thoughts, and then had but to watch as his will was carried out. He was a genius, mon amie. A wicked man, but a genius. For his power was to murder from utter safety. Yet the killer of Monsieur Blake? Only wicked."
"Have you ever killed a man?"
"I have. But only in circumstances most necessary. And you?"
"More than I can count."
"Then I pity you, mon amie."
He taps his tiny cigarette, dislodging its burned debris to form a little mound in the middle of the ashtray.
They're exactly the same as the sample you took from Blake's room.
The Lady in Red
You don't bother to knock before entering the third suspect's room. Whereas the other two were found in their quarters after the body was discovered, and locked within while the butler went to the communications room in hope of enlisting help, this one was located and detained in the library -- which fortunately has its own bathroom facilities and a bar. Apparently the ultra-wealthy never like to be far from places where they may consume and then dispose of alcohol.
The chamber disclosed beyond the opening door is stately and dull. Save for the space annexed by the window which shows a starry night sky, the broad fireplace and the large painting above it, and the doors, every wall has been consumed by floor-to-ceiling bookcases -- each stuffed with a plethora of ornately-bound volumes. It's a bibliophile's wet dream. Perhaps those detectives of a scholarly persuasion enjoy spending long hours in here, searching for information that'll help them crack one of their pseudo-cases. To you, the chamber only has one point of interest, one splash of brightness and color amid the drab, subdued colors of its ancient furniture and endless tomes: Miss Scarlett.
There are certain things you expect to find in a library. Books, for example. And librarians. But a gorgeous blonde woman wearing a red dress that seems to be retreating up from her legs and down from her chest in a determined effort to become a belt, on the other hand, seems somewhat out of place in such surroundings.
However, she appears content enough with the present state of affairs. From the dazzling smile on her face, sitting on a table and toying with a long brass candlestick might be a marvelous way to spend an evening.
"Miss Scarlett, I presume?"
"Please, call me Scarlett, darling."
"Your first name is the same as your surname?"
"It's... complicated."
"I'm here to investigate the death of Sexton Blake."
"Oh, how horrible! The butler told me that it was a murderer, in Sexton's apartment, with a dagger."
"A dagger? The murder weapon hasn't been identified. What makes you think it was a dagger?"
"How silly of me... Force of habit, I suppose." Her smile widens, flashing pearly white teeth and ruby red lips in all their priceless glory.
"You seem pretty cheerful for a woman who's suspected of murder."
"Oh, I'm always a suspect, darling. But I didn't kill Sexton. I must have been right here when it happened."
"What were you doing in a library while a soiree was going on?"
"I don't seem like a bookworm to you?" She giggles. "I came here for a little fun..."
Her left hand strokes its way along the length of the cylindrical column she's holding.
"Miss Scarlett, in the library, with the candlestick?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.
"What a dirty mind you have! But no... I was with Sherlock."
"He was here? What were the two of you doing?"
She laughs.
"Do I have to draw you a picture? If I did, it might make you blush."
"Why the library? You could have just gone to your quarters, or his."
"That was my idea. Part of a little game I like to play. First it was Professor Plum in the ballroom, then Mrs. Peacock in the lounge, then Dupin in the billiard room... I thought it would be fun to complete the set. Though there isn't a conservatory on the ship..."
"How long were you both here? If you spent the evening together..."
"Spent the evening? Ha! He was only here for a few minutes. Then he started crying."
"Crying? Why?"
"I think he has... issues. He said he had to go back to his rooms for a few minutes, and left."
"You stayed here?"
"I thought he just needed a little cocaine to help him perform. So I waited. But he never came back. I must have fallen asleep on the rug in front of the fire. The butler found me lying there, naked. He seemed very embarrassed."
"He... He didn't mention that."
"He's such a dear, isn't he? Very discrete. What every girl wants in a servant."
The Murderer
"Is this a bad time?" you ask.
"I'm currently hanging upside-down above a floor laden with high-explosive mines, attempting to bypass one of the most complicated electronic security locks in human space before the hover-drones make their next patrol. Give me a few seconds."
Exactly four seconds later, Arthur Lupin's voice comes from the communications terminal again.
"All done, my dear."
"What did you steal?"
"Nothing."
"Really?"
"The jewels were rather tacky, so I simply opened the case and left a note next to them -- expressing my opinion of the lady's taste in unflattering terms. Now, what can I help you with?"
"It's a long story."
"Then I should return to the comfort of my ship before you start telling it, instead of perching on this roof like a common gargoyle."
You sit back and wait for him to make his undoubtedly daring escape from the scene of his dubious crime.
The butler was alarmed when he saw you heading towards the hangar. He thought you'd decided to give up the case. But you told him that you just needed to use the Silver Shadow's communications systems to open a secure channel.
"Fire away," Lupin says. This time video flashes into existence on the screen, showing the thief lounging in a spacecraft's flight cabin.
"Master Wu told me that your name was a literary reference."
"He was quite right. A composite of 'Arthur Raffles' and 'Arsène Lupin'. But if you've called to ask for my real name, I'm afraid-"
"I haven't. So, you know your way around nineteenth and twentieth century crime fiction?"
"Becoming a lover of literature?"
"Not exactly..."
Later, after an extensive conversation with the master thief has yielded its fruit, you return to the butler and ask him to convene the guests -- including the three suspects -- in the main lounge.
"We're gathered here because of a heinous crime," you say. "A man was brutally, viciously, nefariously-"
Disapproving faces stare at you from all sides. It seems that these sleuths don't want to hear a lengthy preamble from a novice, so to speak. You'd better get to the good stuff...
"Sexton Blake was murdered," you amend. "And one of these three people did it!"
This time you feel nothing but satisfaction when your sweeping arm and pointing finger evoke the dramatic score.
*Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn*
"Very good, madam," the butler says. "But I fear you're merely providing us with information with which we're all already acquainted."
"I'm summarizing. Butt out."
"Puns are the lowest form of wit, madam..."
"As I was saying... My task was to eliminate each innocent suspect in turn until I was left with the murderer."
"But, mon amie, there have been the cases most singular in which all the suspects were guilty."
"Perhaps... But not this time. First I eliminated Miss Scarlett. She may be a nymphomaniac, but that's a far cry from murder."
"Actually..." the man in the priest costume begins.
"Besides, if she were to commit murder I believe she would have chosen a more appropriate venue for the crime -- such as the ballroom, or the library."
"You know me so well, darling!" she laughs.
"That left me with two suspects, and I couldn't help but notice the evidence pointing towards Hercule Poirot. The man disliked Sexton Blake, saw him as a black mark on his respected profession. And the ash left at the crime scene came from the very same cigarettes that he smokes."
The gasps around the room are gratifying in the extreme. You're beginning to see why people attend these murder mystery events.
"But then I began to use my little grey cells..."
"Très bien!" The Snuuth sleuth nods his approval.
"A man as fastidious as Poirot would never have simply left ash lying around at a crime scene. It would have offended his sense of neatness and order. Furthermore, he wouldn't have struck the left side of his victim's body. Even in matters of life and death, his obsession with symmetry is well known."
"But in a violent struggle, even obsessions might have been neglected," a young Frenchman says.
"Perhaps. But from studying the scene of the crime, it's clear that the victim was taken by surprise. That's why he didn't protect himself and receive defensive wounds. The killer had ample opportunity to administer the fatal blow in a place of his choosing. So that left me with only one suspect... That man!"
Again your finger points. Once more the 'dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn' sounds. You could get used to that...
"After all, who would be more likely to use cigarette ash in the incrimination of an innocent man than someone who'd written an entire monograph on the subject?"
Murmurs of approval ripple through the assembled detectives. The face beneath the deerstalker hat is impassive, his emotions hidden, his sharp eyes fastened on you.
"When I discovered that Sherlock Holmes was a habitual cocaine user," you continue, "a theory began to form in my mind. What if he had been high on drugs, having injected himself with his chosen chem, and committed the murder whilst in a coked-up frenzy?"
"Holmes has been using cocaine for years," one of the American detectives drawls. A lump of black chewing tobacco emerges with his words, splatting on the floor and glistening with strings of saliva. "Why would he go crazy from it now?"
"Perhaps because he was in a state of emotional turmoil, after an embarrassing tryst with Miss Scarlett!"
"What?"
"Holmes?"
"A tryst?"
"Sex?"
"But he's..."
"Isn't he..."
"Does he even..."
The confused babble continues for several moments, and all the while Holmes retains his inscrutable gaze.
"It's true!" Miss Scarlett says. "Me, with Sherlock Holmes, in the library. A girl doesn't like to kiss and tell, but let's just say it was... inadequate. Then he ran off crying."
"Filled with embarrassment at his failure," you say, "and shame at his betrayal of the woman whose picture rests on his mantelpiece, Sherlock Holmes resorted to the cocaine bottle. And then-"
"It's true!" Holmes cries. "All true!"
*Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn*
The gasps almost overwhelm the sound effect.
"I'd always been jealous of Sexton Blake," Holmes continues. "He was the greater detective, and the greater man. So that evening, filled with anguish and cocaine, I went to his quarters and murdered him!"
*Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn*
Okay, now it's getting annoying... You gesture to the butler. He glides away to deactivate it.
"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen," you say. "Sherlock Holmes, emotionally and sexually disturbed, murdered Sexton Blake in a drug-fueled rage and tried to frame Hercule Poirot for the crime. That's what we were supposed to believe, anyway."
"What the devil do you mean, girl?" Colonel Mustard asks. "The man just confessed!"
"This man did," you say, walking over to the detective in the deerstalker hat. "But this man isn't Sherlock Holmes. He's none other than... Sexton Blake!"
He raises his hand to ward you off. But you're too quick. You snatch at his face, tearing away the false nose and other adornments which disguised Blake's features as those of Holmes.
There's no musical score this time. But you don't need one. The detectives' shouts and gasps more than suffice.
"So you mean that dead Sexton was a Sexton?" a young man dressed in rough clothing asks.
"What?" you reply, bemused by his accent as much as his incomprehensible words.
"Rhyming slang, guvnor. Sexton Blake -- fake."
"Oh. Exactly. The dead man was Sherlock Holmes. The mutilation to his face was aimed to conceal that fact. Blake lured him into his apartment, and murdered him."
"So it was Blake in the library?" Miss Scarlett asks.
"Yes. Pretending to be Holmes, as part of his scheme."
"How did you know?" Blake asks, his voice low and guttural.
"Elementary, my dear Blake. The farce with the cocaine? Obvious misdirection. The man I met in Sherlock Holmes' quarters showed no signs of recent cocaine use. And the cigarette ash? The furtive glance at Irene Adler's photograph? Far too obvious. You overplayed your hand. Besides, Sherlock Holmes would never have surrendered even to Miss Scarlett's temptations. It would have been a tremendous breach of character -- no less egregious than your act of murder."
"But why did he do it, madam?" the butler asks.
"Why?" Blake hisses. "Why? Because everyone knows Sherlock Holmes, and no one knows Sexton Blake! I solved more crimes than he ever did, hundreds and hundreds of cases! I was the greatest, most celebrated detective in the world! And for what? So people could forget my name, like I was no better than a Ferrers Locke or a Lord Peter Wimsey?"
Two men, presumably those named, cry out in anger.
"That's why you plotted to not only kill Sherlock Holmes, but to ruin his name aboard the Mysterious Murder," you say, "knowing that after the scandal no one would ever take it up again."
"Ladies and gentlemen," the butler says, "I believe the case is solved."
There are murmurs of approval. Even a few outspoken words of praise hurled in your direction. But most faces are grim, their eyes fixed on Blake.
"But what do we do with him?" Miss Scarlett asks. "We can't hand him over to the police, can we?"
"Most certainly not, madam," the butler declares.
"That's easily fixed," you reply. "I hear you like to duel, Sexton."
His eyes glint.
"I do."
"Then duel with me. To the death."
"Challenge accepted. If you people will be so good as to escort me to the chambers I usurped, I'll retrieve my weapons."
Sexton Blake knew how to fight. But he was no [Player Name].
That's why he's lying on the floor, his weapons and gadgets scattered around him, a hole in his head.
"Très bien, mon amie," Poirot says. "Under these most difficult of circumstances, what has been done is right and proper. It was, as my friend Hastings would say, playing the game."
"Jolly good show," Colonel Mustard says. "Fair and sporting, and the bastard still got what he deserved."
Sundry similar sentiments rain down on you.
"Madam," the butler says, "I feel you really must be rewarded for the invaluable assistance you've rendered us."
"That's very generous-" you begin, wondering how many credits he's going to throw at you.
"So I propose that chambers be set aside for you in perpetuity aboard the Mysterious Murder, that you may take part in all our future events!"
You open your mouth to decline with thanks. But Miss Scarlett chooses that moment to throw her arms around you, and plant her lips on yours. Thus you can only splutter while the others cheer. By the time she releases you from the kiss, it's far too late. So you simply smile and accept your fate.