Murder on the Titania and Other Steam-Powered Adventures

by Alex Acks

  “—Marta, will you kindly shut up for a moment!” Simms didn’t shout, precisely. He didn’t trust the thickness of the walls or doors on a ship like this. But he so rarely bothered to use the captain’s first name that sometimes he came perilously close to forgetting what it actually was.

  And that was enough to bring Captain Ramos up short. She looked at him, eyebrow raised in a particularly sardonic expression. “Yes, Meriwether?”

  He made a face and cleared his throat. “Things have gotten a bit more interesting.”

  “My sort of interesting or your sort of interesting?”

  Wordlessly, he dug the derringer, still wrapped in the handkerchief, from his pocket and offered it to her.

  Captain Ramos’s eyebrows communicated a thorough surprise and puzzlement to him as she took the handkerchief and unwrapped the little pistol. Then, her expression became one much, much sharper. “A lovely present, but it doesn’t really suit me.” She checked to make certain the gun was unloaded and then held it up to her nose and sniffed delicately. “Who was involved?”

  “Clarkson. Very thoroughly. All over the cargo bay thoroughly.”

  “Thoroughly in a very permanent way?”

  “Very, very permanent.”

  Captain Ramos nodded. “You look like you could use a cup of tea, Simms. You can drink it while you tell me everything.”

  Marta listened to Simms’s description of all he’d done and observed, peppered with little pauses as he sipped his tea. He did a decent job of it, even. She only had to ask for clarification a few times, though she expected no less considering the length of their association. Having him organize events into a story also served to knit back together his somewhat frazzled nerves, which she considered a bonus. Simms wasn’t the sort to have the vapors over something so common as a murder, but he did have a bit of a soft heart when it came to even thoroughly unlikeable people.

  “And you’re certain you didn’t hear the door open at all?”

  “Don’t think I could have, between the racket that goes on in the hold and the breather bellows. I didn’t see anyone pass by me, though. But there might have been other ways to get to the door.”

  Not helpful at all, that. Also not really Simms’s fault. “You said that you saw him lunge at someone before he was shot, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How was he standing?”

  “I don’t know. He had his hands up, probably because someone was pointing a gun at him, and then he jumped forward.”

  This was the sort of detail that she really wished she could have observed firsthand because it was a subtle one. Marta turned sideways and raised her hands, the sort of universal gesture most people made when they were desperately hoping to not get shot.

  “Was it more like this”—she stood up straight, even leaning back a bit, and looked strictly forward—“or like this.” She tilted her chin down, as if looking at something below her eye level.

  If Simms could recall that, it would at least give her an indication of the height of the attacker, or at least the height at which he’d been holding the gun. People had a tendency to stare at the muzzle when a gun was pointed at them—something about looking into the face of death, she supposed.

  “Show me again?” Simms sipped his tea as she repeated her demonstration. She exaggerated a bit more the second time. “The second. He was looking down a bit. I remember that.” He frowned. “A bit more than you were looking down, actually.”

  “Like this?” She looked down even more. Curious. Well, maybe the gun had originally been held at waist height. That wasn’t uncommon.

  “Yeah. And the last I saw of him, when he was jumping forward, he had his arms down, like he was grabbing in that direction instead of straight ahead.”

  “Hmm.”

  Marta envisioned the classic-concealed-threat-in-a-crowd pose of pulling a pistol from the waistband and then aiming for the kidneys, to keep it out of eye level. Yes, that seemed about right. Though why anyone would do that in a deserted cargo bay was questionable. Melodrama, perhaps, though that seemed far too neat of an explanation, and she didn’t trust it in the slightest. A few hypotheses were all right, but drawing conclusions from so little evidence would be the sort of sloppy thinking she abhorred.

  “Where did you say he was shot?”

  Here, Simms squirmed a bit in his chair. “Right in the head. And he bled quite a lot as well. I…don’t rightly know if that’s normal or not.”

  “In the head…how? Dead center?” She tapped the middle of her forehead.

  “No, not at all.” Simms went on to describe the wounds, from soft underside of the chin to the ruined top of the head.

  “Interesting.” Indeed, when she visualized the sort of trajectory that would cause that kind of wound. “His attacker had the pistol at an odd angle indeed.” It was more close to the sort of wound she might expect from suicide, but given what preceded, she rather doubted that would be the case.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Indulge me, Simms.” She beckoned him to his feet. “In order to shoot you in that manner, I’d have to have the pistol so…” She held it in the vicinity of his neck, pointed almost straight upward. “Exceedingly awkward.”

  “They might have been wrestling for the gun,” Simms offered.

  “Mmm.” It was possible, she supposed. She really did need more detail; it was all guesswork now, and she loathed guessing. “I’ll just have to go have a look at him myself.” That seemed the best solution. “Presumably he hasn’t been found yet.”

  She’d just need to change into something a bit more masculine, since a maid had no excuse to be in the cargo hold. This thought on her mind, she took herself over to the trunk she’d brought with spare changes of costume and began to dig through it. She hadn’t really planned on having to dress as a man on this trip, but Simms wasn’t actually that much taller than her. She could make do with one of his shirts—

  “—his cabin?”

  Marta glanced over her shoulder at Simms. “What?”

  “Were you not listening to me again?”

  Marta sniffed. “Were you actually saying anything important?”

  “I was asking if you found anything interesting in Clarkson’s cabin.” Simms gave her the sort of long-suffering look normally reserved for dogs with soulful brown eyes and excessively wrinkly faces.

  All right, she had to admit that it was an important-ish question. Well, she already knew the answer to it since she’d been the one there, but Simms had this annoying habit of wanting to know everything that was happening. Rather like herself, really. The nerve of some people.

  “Well, the bit of excitement you had in the cargo hold renders my own discoveries somewhat moot. I found the schematics for his so-called difference engine, and it’s nothing more than a fancy puppet. It can’t calculate at all. I’d thought to confront the man and engineer a bit of humiliation for him, but I’ve had that pleasure stolen from me.”

  She tapped her fingers on her chin, considering the new arrangement of things. Clarkson was no longer around to direct his machine, not that it had needed much direction before. It could prove far more problematic when it came time for Captain Murray to take control of the ship again.

  “Though this potentially opens up a new, much more dangerous set of problems.”

  “The bit where there’s a murderer running about?”

  “No, I’d wager whoever did Clarkson in won’t be hurting anyone else.”

  “Then what—”

  The sudden clamor of bells cut him off: a general alarm. Well, that had happened much earlier than expected. Simms’s hand jerked. Thankfully, he’d drunk enough of his tea that he didn’t spill any on himself.

  “What in the hell is that?”

  “The new problem,” Marta said, tossing Simms’s shirt aside. The time for that change of clothing was now past, it seemed. “Get changed back into your borrowed finery, Simms. We’re going to bluff our way onto the bridge.”r />
  The alarm cut off abruptly midway through the two of them trying to scramble back into clothes that, by all rights, someone else should have been dressing them in.

  Simms’s hands stilled on the buttons of his shirt. “Short-lived emergency,” he remarked.

  The ship’s gong rang four times. “Supposedly the all-clear,” Captain Ramos said. “I shouldn’t believe that for one moment. See to your tie, Simms.”

  “So paranoid, Captain.” Simms grinned at her, and then found something else to look at as she hitched up her skirt to untwist one of her petticoats.

  “It’s almost as if I’ve been on this ship of fools before,” she remarked.

  The demands of costume followed by the necessary makeup, however hastily applied, meant that many of the other passengers, still dressed for the dance that promised to go long into the night, had stolen a march on them, crowding up into the hallway that led to the bridge and held at bay by polite but very stubborn uniformed crew. The first officer was out as well, reassuring anyone who would listen that the alarm had been a false one, and would they all please go back to their dancing or cabins, whatever suited them best.

  Simms bulled his way through the crowd, grateful that the captain was watching his back and lending more material help in the form of sharp elbows a few well-placed shoves. As Simms shouldered an older, rather portly gentleman aside, the man caught his cane on a decorative table—had that been there earlier? It seemed a terrible place for it, the hallway wasn’t that wide to begin with, and there was already an alcove with flowers and one of those ostentatiously decorative grates right overhead, wasn’t that a bit much? Simms hastened to catch him and prop him up before he actually fell over.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, making certain the gentleman was steady on his feet before letting go of him. “Got knocked a bit sideways in the crowd.”

  The man sniffed. “Dashed mess, this. No way to run a ship. These people all ought to be in bed.”

  Simms made a wordless sound of agreement, deciding not to point out that he thought the gentleman ought to be in bed too and out of his bloody way right now, thank you very much. He wormed his way ahead, Captain Ramos behind him and breezily tossing out apologies and sounds of sympathy.

  “Sir, please go back to your room or the ballroom,” the first officer said, holding out a hand as Simms came up face to face with him. He spoke with the tired tone of a man who had repeated himself too many times and was well aware of the fact that no one was listening to him.

  Just to the left of the guard lay the chain that had been used to secure the bridge door, lock open but pristine.

  Captain Ramos tugged on Simms and he obediently leaned over to listen. “Tell him that you know it’s a difficulty with the automaton.” Ignoring his muttered, “Do I really,” she continued on, “and your dear friend Clarkson has told you much about it, so you think you might be able to render assistance until the gentleman can be located.”

  Simms nodded and passed along that message with what he hoped was appropriately royal bluster. In a stroke of brilliance, he added, “And I don’t mean to blow my own horn, dear boy,” that was right, rich blokes called people “dear boy” in the most patronizing manner possible all the time, didn’t they, “but perhaps you’ve heard of me. I am Lord Parnell-Muttar, and if that doesn’t ring any bells, perhaps the name Venus Delphinia does?” As soon as the words crossed his lips, he had the uncomfortable feeling that if such a thing as hell existed, this alone would probably be enough to buy him a one-way ticket, even if he’d somehow managed to live a blameless life up until this moment.

  That was the right thing to say, though. The harried officer’s eyes widened and he waved Simms toward the doors, which meant Captain Ramos went along, clutching at his arm as if she were afraid she might be lost without it. The man in front of the doors opened them the barest crack necessary for Simms to fit his shoulders through. That alone was enough to give him a bad feeling about what might be on the other side.

  The bridge was in disarray, shattered glass decorating the floor, the immaculate brass fittings pocked with dents. A black sky, void of all but the bright cutout of the moon and the indistinct fluff of clouds framed the wreckage. The automaton listed to one side, one of its arms missing. A fire ax discarded on the floor to one side left little doubt about the cause of the mess. Even more worrying, every pipe and cable that Simms recalled having seen earlier being attached to the automaton’s cabinet were strewn across the floor, ends ragged. The door to the automaton’s cabinet hung from a single hinge, revealing…very little. Mechanical detritus, but there wasn’t nearly enough mass to account for the guts of a cabinet that size.

  “Oh, that can’t be good,” Simms breathed, stopping in his tracks. “But if that’s—What’s flying the ship?”

  “Right now?” Captain Ramos gave him a bright smile. “Nothing at all.”

  “Sir—” Captain Murray hurried to meet them.

  Simms held up one hand. Fruity tones, he reminded himself, fruity tones. Hopefully fruity tones not colored by the sudden concerns he had about being in an effectively rudderless airship. “I’m here to render assistance, my good sir. Nothing more.”

  Captain Murray nodded, his gaze flicking to the captain. “This sort of havoc is perhaps not suitable for a lady…”

  “Oh, fear not, sir. She’s quite strong of stomach for one of her sex,” Simms said in a tone of utter smarm. “And one must indulge one’s wife in her little hobbies, don’t you see? She won’t be in the way.” Despite the apparently dire situation, he still couldn’t help but try to squeeze a little amusement from the role. He might as well have a good laugh if the ship was about to drop out of the sky and into the ocean.

  “Have you caught the ghastly person who would do such a thing?” Captain Ramos asked, a little tremor in her voice as if to belie Simms’s comment.

  “Fear not, ma’am. We’ll have him in custody shortly.”

  Simms didn’t need Captain Ramos to tell him that Captain Murray was lying, and very badly, about that one.

  Captain Ramos smiled vapidly and made a show of looking around, pointing at the fire axe on the ground. “Oh dear…you know, I think I saw Mister Hartley carrying that earlier, in the hall. He just told me it had fallen from its mounts and he was to give it to one of the crew. Perhaps you can ask him to whom he gave it? That might be your culprit.” She smiled brightly. “Mister Hartley’s such a helpful soul.”

  Captain Murray looked startled, but nodded, waving frantically to one of the guards. As soon as he’d moved away, Simms leaned down close to her. “Who the hell is Mister Hartley?” he muttered.

  “Remember the man in the orange waistcoat at the reception? Looks a bit like a fire ax himself?”

  “The one trying to set fire to Clarkson with the sheer power of his glare?”

  Captain Ramos nodded. “Yes. Hartley.”

  “Right.” He glanced quickly around. “Wait. Not right. Is there a reason we need to set everyone off on a wild hare chase?”

  “This may not be a wild hare chase. When I saw Hartley earlier, he was hauling a grudge about rather than an ax, and looking a bit mussed. Pulled threads on his jacket and the like. And his shoulders are just narrow enough he could have squeezed into one of those conduits in the hall and crawled his way into the bridge.”

  “Now that’s some determination.” Simms thought of the table that had mysteriously appeared under one of the grates. Even going that short distance in such a cramped space, without towing a fire ax, would be impressive. “He must really hate Clarkson.”

  “Perhaps even enough to kill him in cold blood.” Captain Ramos shook her head, cutting off the next question he’d been about to ask. “First things first, Simms. I rather like the bit where we don’t crash into the ocean, and if you really gave it some thought, I reckon you’d agree. Let’s have a look at the automaton. Go stand by it and pretend you’re explaining how it works. There’s a good fellow.”

  Simms did a
s directed. He had little doubt this was a ruse to let her get a closer look. Two engineers scrambled among the spilled wires and leaking pipes, their boots crunching on glass and bent gears. Judging by the expressions on their faces, the prognosis was grim. Simms didn’t like it when other people were grim. That was supposed to be his job.

  Another alarm went off. The younger of the two engineers crawled under a panel in the wall, cursing loudly as he sought to turn it back off.

  “How bad is it?” Simms muttered to the captain.

  “Hartley did quite the job of it. I don’t think they’ll be getting it in order any time soon.”

  “So we’re adrift.”

  “They are,” Captain Ramos said, her tone becoming pointed for all that she still spoke at a whisper. “We have our insurance policy in the cargo hold.”

  Simms frowned. “Could you fix it?”

  “I suppose I could if I wanted, though that would quite destroy our cover I think.”

  He really wasn’t certain how he felt about that, when stated so baldly. Neither the ship nor its crew nor its passengers had ever done anything to hurt him. Simms wasn’t any sort of lover of the upper classes by any stretch of the imagination, but he’d also just had a sharp as a gunshot reminder that he hadn’t yet hit a point where death could pass him by without putting another smudge on his conscience. And when he thought about it like that, he found he wanted to keep it that way.

  The older of the engineers, a man with a neatly trimmed white beard now streaked with grease, finally noticed them. “Are you the one Captain Murray said might provide some help?” Another alarm, and more cursing from the engineer under the panel.

  Simms looked down at Captain Ramos. “There are a lot of people on this ship to be drifting off to who knows what fate. So perhaps you could consider it a challenge…unless you think yourself unequal to it.”

  Captain Ramos sighed theatrically. “Then you’d best get to the cargo hold. We likely won’t be welcome any longer by the time this is done.” Before he could reply, she straightened, slipped away from his arm, and strode forward. “Actually, I’m the one who will be helping you.” She held up one finger. “Don’t even consider laughing, and hand me that spanner.”