Existence is Elsewhen

by John Gribbin

  Chumley gave her a look that asked a different, but related question. “Oh, somebody says that to him in every story he’s in,” Rapier explained. “It gives him a chance to talk about his love of fedoras. It’s kind of a running –”

  The Samurai gave a long grunt and pulled imaginary hair out of his bald head. I didn’t have to translate.

  “Right. You live in a universe designated by the Transdimensional Authority as Earth Prime 5-1-3-0-2-4 dash theta,” Chumley explained. “Your universe exists in a symbiotic relationship with Earth Prime 6-5-4-7-8-4 dash eta.”

  “Symbiotic universes exist where two universes are conceptually intertwined, where actions in one affect the other, and sometimes vice versa,” Rapier explained Chumley’s explanation. “The one that most people are familiar with is the relationship between one universe and the universe that hosts its pantheon of gods. Sometimes, the gods come to the first universe to start wars or impregnate fair maidens or engage in other hijinks. At the same time, if people in the first universe stop believing in the gods, their hijinks powers start to wane, to the point where it could threaten their very existence. The two universes are intertwined. Uhh, symbiotically.”

  As Rapier began a pause to catch her breath, Chumley took back control of the explanation: “Your two universes have a unique relationship. All of the people who live in this universe are characters in fictional stories that were written in the other universe, but never read or otherwise shown to an audience.”

  “But…but…but,” I sputtered, “lady here said that she had all of my novels. The novels where I was the main character. How –”

  “Except for Murder Most Presbyterian,” Rapier corrected. “In that one, you only appear at the end and solve the mystery before you return to your vacation in the Catskills.”

  “Just my point. If – how many novels did you say I was in?”

  “Thirteen novels and at least twice as many short stories.”

  “Harrumph. If I – were they were popular? My novels?”

  “I don’t think now is the best time to indulge your ego in–”

  “No, no, well, I mean, yes, but I am building to a point, here.”

  “Oh. Well, yes, in their day, they were very popular.”

  “Yes, well, there you go. How could I have been in a story which nobody had ever read if I was the hero of a popular series of stories?”

  “As best we can figure,” Chumley explained afresh, “Hanna Moscovitz, the author of the Shlomo Schwartz mysteries, must have written one before she died that was never published. Her fans have traded rumours of a lost manuscript on Internet message boards for decades since her death – your existence here would lend credence to those rumours.”

  I snapped my fingers and pointed at Chumley. “That’s why I can’t remember the details of my most famous cases! They could have been mentioned in the missing manuscript, but if they were read in this other universe you mentioned, they couldn’t be referenced in this one!”

  “Exac –”

  “Poppyrot!” Rich Uncle Moneybags blurted. “Utter tosh and bosh and that. Even if what you say is true – and my inclination would be to call bullponies on it – none of us have anything to do with that other universe. This is a murder investigation that is strictly limited to this reality!”

  “Ah,” Chumley said.

  “Well,” Rapier added.

  “There is this writer on Earth Prime 6-5-4-7-8-4 dash eta named Etienne Carlyle,” Chumley expositioned. “He writes mostly fourteenth century gothic science fiction murder mysteries – a niche taste, to be sure, but his fans are very loyal. A couple of weeks ago, Earth Prime 6-5-4-7-8-4 dash eta time, somebody used a very naughty – very illegal – device to control his brain from this universe. What did they force him to do?”

  Chumley looked around the room in anticipation, but nobody felt the need to prompt him, so, a little disappointed, he continued: “They forced him to write short stories whose main characters were people who lived in this universe and post them on Smashwords. When his fans started reading them, those people would disappear from this universe as if they had never existed. Now, you’re probably asking yourself: why would somebody do that?”

  Chumley paused again, but more briefly, as if he didn’t expect anybody to try to answer his question this time. Nobody did, so he continued: “Because somebody close to the Desmond Concannen case had found out that this person had killed the gentleman inventor and was blackmailing him. Whoever the killer is didn’t know who the blackmailer was, but he had a group of suspects, and was eliminating them one by one. So, the ultimate question is: who would do such a thing?”

  Chumley paused several seconds before he added: “No, seriously. That wasn’t a rhetorical question. Carlyle didn’t know who was controlling him from this end. Any help any of you could give in solving this would be greatly appreciated.”

  We looked at each other for a while, but nobody knew what to say. Eventually, Chumley, looking around the Hebrew school room, turned to Rapier and asided: “Well, this sure takes me back.”

  “I didn’t know you were Jewish,” she responded.

  “I’m not. My parents wanted me to have a well-rounded education, so they sent me to a different religious school every semester throughout high school. Ask me about the term I spent at the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster some time.”

  You know how, sometimes, when one part of your mind is distracted, another part of your mind actually comes up with the solution to a problem? You know, when you’re listening to The Wonderbread Mystery Theatre Three Quarters of an Hour on the radio and you suddenly come up with a proof for Fermat’s last theorem? Well, I may be no genius, but even I know that when you put two and two together, you get a family of twos.

  I snapped my fingers. “Say, Chum…ley. Was one of the people whose existence was erased from this world a girl?”

  Chumley consulted a notepad that had suddenly appeared in his hand. “Yes. Her name was Missy Mulholland. Her shorthand description was ‘The Shootin’ Sweetheart of Sandler’s Gulch.’”

  I pointed at Rich Uncle Moneybags. “You knew that a girl had disappeared from here. You tried to cover it up in the confusion, but you knew, even though there was no trace of her existence in this reality. The only way you could have known that was if you had masterminded the whole megillah!”

  Rich Uncle Moneybags took a long puff on the cigar that always seemed to be in his mouth but never seemed to shorten. “Son, I’ve got more lawyers than you’ve got hairs on your head. So, I would think twice before accusing me of illegal behaviour if I were –”

  Mister Giggles purred contentedly. “Okay. You got me. I’m the blackmailer. I was prowling around R.U.M. and Koch Industries labs in South Outer Anytown. I had heard the rumours about Desmond Concannen building a machine that could transport you to another universe, and I thought, Purrfect! He could help me get to a reality where my homeworld still existed! Don’t ask me how I got in the building – the feline guild would never forgive me for giving away such a basic trade secret. Let’s just take it as given. As I approached the door to Concannen’s lab, I could hear two voices shouting: the inventor and the rich purrson. I could also smell the unmistakeable odour of carp. I had no idea that it was going to be used as a murder weapon – honestly! I just assumed that it was dinnertime. I’m always ready for dinner. When I heard choking noises coming from the lab, well, I panicked and ran. The kind of man who is capable of choking another man to death with a carp is capable of anything!”

  “Well,” Chumley started, but now that I knew what was going on, I wasn’t about to cede the case to him.

  “Well, Rich Uncle Moneybags, what do you have to say to that?” I asked.

  “I’m not saying word one until there is a phalanx of lawyers between us,” Rich Uncle Moneybags sneered.

  “Still,” Chumley started. I gave him such a look! A small smile threatened to break out on his lips, and he gestured towards the suspect.

&nb
sp; “Still,” I said, “we know enough to have a pretty good idea of what you were up to. Concannen refused to continue working on the interdimensional flying machine –”

  “We call them Dimensional PortalTMs,” Rapier whispered to me.

  “Right. Concannen refused to continue working on your Dimensional Portal, so you –”

  “TM. Dimensional PortalTM. It’s very important to our lawyers.”

  I supressed the urge to roll my eyes. “Right. So, Concannen refused to work on your Dimensional PortalTM, so, in a fit of rage, you force fed him a carp.”

  “Pah! Some detective you are!” Rich Uncle Moneybags snorted. “Desmond had already finished the Dimensional PortalTM!”

  “Of course. I suspected that that might be the case. You must have killed him because he was no longer useful to you.”

  “Noooooo, I killed him because the idiot insisted upon registering a flight plan with the Transdimensional Authority! How was that going to help keep my secret plan secret?”

  “Of course. That would have been my second choice.”

  Chumley cleared his throat. “The, ahh, interview is going very well, Mister Schwartz. I was wondering if you would allow me to interject one small question of my own.”

  A compliment he paid me? A real nugget of praise? Of course, I would allow him to ask a question after the big lug paid me a compliment. I gestured towards the billionaire.

  “Thank you. Rich Uncle Moneybags, if the Dimensional PortalTM had been completed, why didn’t you use it immediately to return to Earth Prime 6-5-4-7-8-4 dash eta?”

  “I thought I made it clear that I’m not answering your questions!” Rich Uncle Moneybags snarled.

  “If you will allow me…” I suggested.

  Chumley looked like he was repressing a desire to scratch his head. “Be my guest…”

  “So, the Dimensional Portal TM was finished, but you didn’t use it. Obviously, it was out of gas –”

  “It runs on hydrogen, the most abundant element in the universe.”

  “Or, Concannen hadn’t given you the keys –”

  “You start it by pressing a big green button.”

  “You crashed it into a dingo that had randomly appeared in the lab the first time you tried to –”

  “No! No! No! No! No! Gaaaah! I’m not from this world, okay? I lived most of my life in the other universe – one day, I woke up to discover that my mind had been switched into…this!” Rich Uncle Moneybags poked himself in the belly. “Going back in this body wouldn’t do me any good – nobody would believe it was really me! I had to find out where my original body was and figure out how to get my consciousness back into it!”

  Chumley and Rapier exchanged a look. Hoo boy, the look they exchanged! “Okay, what?”

  “We know somebody who controlled people’s minds across dimensions – this might be an extension of her work,” Chumley stated.

  “But, she’s been in a maximum security prison since we caught her a few months ago,” Rapier added.

  “So, what’re you going to do?” I asked.

  “Mmm,” Chumley mmmed. “I think I can convince the Transdimensional Authority’s Poet Laureate to spend some time on Earth Prime 6-5-4-7-8-4 dash eta –”

  “Leonard is always complaining that he doesn’t ever seem to get a vacation,” Rapier approvingly agreed.

  “Exactly. While he’s there, we can hopefully prevail upon him to write stories featuring the characters – sorry, people who were erased from this world and immediately transfer them to Earth Prime –”

  “That’s where our headquarters are.”

  “As long as nobody on Earth Prime 6-5-4-7-8-4 dash eta reads his stories, everybody should reappear as they were.”

  “Well, probably not exactly as they were. For one thing, they may speak in verse for a little while. Still –”

  “Hold on!” Rich Uncle Moneybags put in. “If you’re planning on bringing everybody back from oblivion, there can be no murder charges for what happened to them. Habeus corpus, my friends. Habeus bloody corpus!”

  Chumley favoured him with a warm smile. “Attempted murder, then.”

  “I’m not sure that conceptual homicide is against the law. Once my lawyers get through with you –”

  “We have you dead to rights for communicating across universes without a permit,” Chumley’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “We take that sort of thing very seriously at the Transdimensional Authority.”

  Chumley motioned to Rich Uncle Moneybags to turn around so he could put handcuffs on him. At first, I thought it must be some kind of joke – Rich Uncle Moneybags’ wrists were so thin, the manacles would fall right off. Then, the other shoe dropped – right on my furshlugginer kop.

  “What are you doing with my suspect?” I asked.

  “I’m taking him to Earth Prime to serve time for his crimes against the multiverse.”

  “You can’t do that! He killed a man with a carp – nothing you do is going to change that!”

  “Have you ever read the Treaty of Gehenna-Wentworth?”

  “Umm…not that I’m aware of.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. It’s been on People Magazine – Multiverse Edition’s list of ten most boring documents for years. Last year, it tied for number three with a book of Vogon poetry. Still, I’m sorry but it gives the Transdimensional Authority jurisdiction in this case.”

  Rapier laid a hand on my arm. “If it’s any consolation,” she enthusiastically told me, “that was the most brilliant use of the Clouseau Technique for interrogating a suspect that I have ever witnessed! Congratulations!”

  I had no idea what she was talking about, but, yeah, it was some consolation.

  *

  A couple of days later, I was sitting in my office, nursing an ice cold skim milk (what I know from ulcers? – oy! – don’t ask!) and looking at the front door where “rehcrA dna ztrawhcS” was written when I snapped my fingers. Of course! rehcrA must have been my partner on a case in a book that was popular in the other universe. I would never know why he was no longer around, but I was satisfied that a minor personal mystery had been solved.

  A thin figure wearing a big flowery hat and sixguns appeared behind the frosted glass. Could it be the woman who disappeared from my investigation of the Concannen case? Before she could even knock, I shouted, “Come in!”

  A woman with hair of straw and a strong chin walked into my office. “Mister Schwartz?” Missy Mulholland asked.

  “That’s what they call me,” I shot back.

  “A Transdimensional Authority investigator told me I oughta done catch ya later. Her name was…Naomi? Said ya did a kind thing for me?”

  It was love at first sight. Again, probably. I beamed at her and waved a hand towards the chair on the other side of my desk. “Sit. Sit. I’ll tell you all about it. Can I offer you some skim milk?”

  The Girl in Black

  by

  Christopher Nuttall

  Christopher Nuttall has been planning sci-fi books since he learnt to read. Born and raised in Edinburgh, Chris created an alternate history website and eventually graduated to writing full-sized novels. Studying history independently allowed him to develop worlds that hung together and provided a base for storytelling. After graduating from university, Chris started writing full-time. As an indie author he has self-published a number of novels, but has also had eight titles published by Elsewhen Press, including the best-selling Bookworm series.

  His Royal Sorceress series about Lady Gwendolyn Crichton is set in an alternative 1830s, some sixty years after British scientists discovered the scientific basis of magic (which enabled them to win the American War of independence). The series began with The Royal Sorceress, followed by The Great Game and then Necropolis. The next installment in the series, The Sons of Liberty, will be published by Elsewhen Press in 2016. Chris is currently living in Edinburgh with his wife, muse, and critic Aisha and their one-year old son Eric.

  The Girl in Blac
k takes place before the end of The Great Game (1831), just prior to Olivia’s kidnap.

  My Lord Mycroft.

  Doctor Norwell, as you are no doubt aware, has requested that a full account of the affair of the Saint of Grimsby be written for the Royal Archives. As my work for the country is considered a state secret, I am forwarding the account to you beforehand so you may edit it to preserve the secrets of our great nation. I look forward to your comments on the matter.

  It was my task, as the threat of war with France loomed over the country once again, to monitor the actions of the country’s few remaining Papists. While some believe the threat of a Catholic Restoration to have died with the Young Pretender, the prospect of a threat presented by Catholics within our country cannot be discounted. France, as all are aware, dominates Rome and the Pope himself is a French mouthpiece. Accordingly, as a Charmer of the second rank, I move between the various Papist households, making contact with a number of His Majesty’s agents. It was from one of them that I first heard rumours of a saint.

  Father Peter, at least on the surface, is one of the few Catholic priests allowed to move freely within Britain. His freedom comes at a price, as he is well aware; it is his duty to watch and record those who take Mass openly, those who take it secretly and those who would take it, if they dared. It galls me to depend on such people – the secrets of the Confession are open to us, if we merely pay the Father what he demands – but he is reliable. I met up with him in an isolated house and we fell to talking. My Charm, of course, permitted me to extract more from him than he might have preferred.

  “There is a rumour of a young girl who works miracles,” he said, after we had discussed the loyalties of the most prominent Catholics in the country. “They say she speaks with the voice of God.”

  I did not, of course, believe such blasphemy, but rumours can spread quickly if they are not nipped in the bud. Accordingly, after drawing all of the details I could from him, I rode to the home of Sally Harcourt, an elderly woman who has remained firmly Catholic through several wars and innumerable persecutions of Papists. I must confess that I found her rather remarkable. She is and remains the type of woman who is the core of Britain’s greatness, but her stubbornness condemns her to the fires of hell. We took tea together and, using my Charm, I urged her to tell me what she’d seen.