LotS/The Story/Because I'm the Wanderer/The Butler Did It

[Intro] 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, sir."

"That's the name of your ship?"

"Quite so. I must commend sir 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, sir. 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, sir, 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, sir?"

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, sir. 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, sir."

"Isn't that supposed to happen?"

"A real murder, sir. 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, sir. 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, sir."

"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, sir, 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.

"Sir, 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, sir. 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 him!"

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 gentleman 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-"

"He'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 man 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, sir, 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, sir. 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."