by Sam Gamble
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SKITTERING SHADOW
(SHERLOCK HOLMES IN SPACE SERIES, BOOK 1)
By Sam Gamble
The Adventure of the Skittering Shadow
Copyright © 2016 by Sam Gamble
The Adventure of the Skittering Shadow
Copyright 2016, Sam Gamble
First electronic publication: January 2016
Published in the United States of America.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s permission.
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Note from the Author
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
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Blurb
In the distant future, the Martian surface is rife with colonies… and crime.
When Miss Helen Stoner’s sister dies of unknown causes, she goes to Mars’ greatest consulting detective: Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Miss Stoner is desperate, and Sherlock Holmes is ready to help. Together, he and Dr. John Watson investigate the death of Julia Stoner, a researcher who died alone in a locked room while her sister slept next door.
A riff on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s short story The Adventure of the Speckled Band, The Adventure of the Skittering Shadow is a blend of science fiction, mystery, and adventure, placing the legendary duo of Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes in space.
Table of Contents
The Adventure of the Skittering Shadow Copyright © 2016 by Sam Gamble
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Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 01
To be shaken awake by Sherlock Holmes was a terrifying thing.
It was an unassailable fact that, although the length of a day varied from planet to planet and even ship to ship, there remained one constant no matter where we were in the solar system or how the days and hours were arranged, kept, and counted: Sherlock Holmes was a late riser. If he was up and about before midmorning, then more than likely he had been up all the night before. Dire emergency was the only exception to the rule.
Therefore, when I opened my eyes to find him leaning over me with his hand on my shoulder, fully dressed and ready to face the day when my alarm had not yet rung, a spike of adrenaline burned away any remaining lethargy in me. I sprang from my bed, shrugged on my coat, and scooped up my poor little bulldog pup to begin our headlong flight to the escape pods.
Unfortunately, I was already in the shared recreation area before I became alert enough to recognize that the ship was not on fire, that terror of both ancient Earth-bound mariners and modern space-faring man alike, and areas of the ship were not going to be locked off and either flooded with low frequency sound waves or evacuated of atmosphere. Such a realization, while not unwelcome, was somewhat unfortunate because of the giggles.
I turned to find a lovely woman sitting on the couch, her head ducked and one wrist raised to hide her mouth as she laughed at my expense. Slim and fine-boned, she was of an average height for a woman with large, intelligent eyes, pale skin, and dark brown hair that she wore loose around her shoulders. She wore a red blouse, matching red leather gloves, and a white skirt with a floral print. Over the back of the couch, our early morning visitor had draped a long black coat and a handbag, bright purple and hand knitted. When she dropped her arm, she revealed a pretty face and a mouth that was slightly too wide.
A glance at my wristwatch showed that it was only a quarter past six in the morning; too early for anyone to be up and about who did not have to be.
And the ship was probably still not on fire.
I turned to glower at Holmes, who exited my private quarters at an easy stroll, the bastard.
“Sorry about that, old man,” said Holmes. His contrition, although intoned perfectly, was betrayed by the smile that lurked in the corners of his mouth. “Though, it’s the common lot this morning, I’m afraid.”
“But the ship is definitely not on fire,” I replied, returning to my initial concern. “Right?”
I wanted to be quite, quite clear on that point. Fire, either in a ship on a primordial sea or in space, was a devastating thing. I had witnessed it once before and had no desire to repeat the experience.
“No, there’s no fire,” said our visitor, and Holmes, who was standing to one side and slightly behind her, shook his head in emphasis. “It’s just me. I woke the captain, she woke Mr. Holmes, and he woke you.”
I was deeply, painfully relieved.
Knotting her fingers in the fabric of her skirt, the red leather of her gloves quietly creaking, the woman leaned forward. Low and intent, she said, “I need help, doctor. Without it, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
I put down my long-suffering pup with as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances. She huffed at me through her squashed nose, shook her jowls, and returned to our room at an offended trot. Straightening, I buttoned my overcoat and took a seat in one of the armchairs, grateful for my thick woolly socks. Resting my elbows on the chair’s arms, I tried to look congenial instead of grumpy, tired, and embarrassed. Holmes claimed the seat next to me.
“Are you certain that you don’t want to change first?” inquired our guest, looking uncertainly at my feet. “Maybe have a cup of coffee? The captain made some.”
“Quite certain, thank you,” I returned. “They’re very warm. And I’m very much awake now.”
I was too. Mind-numbing terror first thing in the morning was a potent thing.
“My name is Helen Stoner,” said the woman, her hands now still and relaxed in her lap. “And I think – I know – Two months ago, my twin sister was murdered. And I want to hire you to find her killer, Mr. Holmes.”
Chapter 02
After my initial surprise had worn off, I risked a glance at Holmes, who appeared to be trying (and failing) to contain his delight. Only yesterday, he had complained that he was bored with his current crop of cases. Since he was having difficulties, I took it upon myself to ask our guest what had brought her to such a (shocking) conclusion.
“Julia is – was my identical twin,” answered Helen Stoner with quiet dignity. “We shared an apartment in Nerio’s Yuri Gagarin borough. One morning about two months ago, I went to wake her
for breakfast and instead found her dead. There was an autopsy, but the manner and cause of my sister’s death could not be determined. The inquest found that at the time of her death my sister was alone in a room in which the window and door were locked. Homicide was ruled out, and her case closed. Ten days ago, I retained a second forensic pathologist to review my sister’s medical records. Unfortunately the second doctor agreed with the first that Julia had simply dropped dead. But that’s impossible! My sister was in perfect health! And we were identical twins. If there had been anything wrong with her physiology, then there should be a flaw in mine too. I have had myself tested and retested, and I am in perfect health.”
“It isn’t always that simple,” I said, feeling pity for the distraught woman. “Sometimes environmental factors, lifestyle choices, and even luck play a part in one’s health.”
“And sometimes its murder,” interjected Miss Stoner angrily. Turning her focus entirely on Holmes, she said pleadingly, “Please, help me. I don’t know what to do. My sister and I were together from our very first moment until the moment that she died. We shared dorm rooms, apartments, and even a husband – my third and her first. We had planned to be together our whole lives and die on the very same day. And now she’s just gone. I don’t know how or why or who took her away. I don’t know if I could have done anything to save her. All I know is that someone murdered her and I won’t be able to sleep or eat or even breathe easily until I know everything. I can’t let go of her until her murderer is punished.
“But this isn’t a problem whose solution I can discover on my own. I am not a detective nor do I have the makings of one. If I had any faculty for the art of deduction, I would have already proved that my poor sister had been murdered and discovered her killer. I need your help, Mr. Holmes. Without it, I’ll just keep fumbling around in the dark and wasting my money on fools.”
Holmes sat quietly for several moments, his probing gaze steady on Miss Stoner, who bore up under it admirably. She returned his regard, her back straight, her shoulders squared, and her hands motionless in her lap. Her entire being was still, waiting.
“Deduction is a science, not an art,” he said presently. “I am a scientist the same as yourself and the same as your sister. Tell me, was your sister still attached to him at the time of her death?” At Miss Stoner’s bewildered look, Holmes elaborated, saying impatiently, “The husband; were they still married at the time of her death?”
“No, that was over years ago. There were no hard feelings, and Bill – William Chapman – came to the funeral. He didn’t even inherit from her. He had no reason to kill her – no one did. She didn’t have any enemies; at least, none that she knew of. And as far as I know, she wasn’t seeing anyone.”
“It will be a difficult but not impossible case,” said Holmes, frowning. “It has been some time since your sister died, and the crime scene is gone.”
“No one has set foot in either bedroom since that morning,” Helen Stoner swiftly interjected. “I’ve been staying at capsule hotels around the city since my sister died so everything in the apartment is exactly as the police left it, if a trifle dustier. And I have copies of my sister’s medical records from both before and after her death. If any of that will help?”
“Immensely,” murmured Holmes, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his legs at the knee. “You say that you and your sister had never parted. Tell me about your lives.”
“Julia and I were born on an asteroid,” began Miss Stoner, her gloved fingers worrying at a loose thread in her skirt. “At the time, our parents were part of a team that was setting up an automated mining station. Our father died soon after we were born, and I have no memory of him. When we were two, our mother remarried to a medical doctor named Dr. Grimesby Roylott, who also adopted us. From what I remember, he was a good doctor and he had a passion for robotics, but he was also an awful, brutal man with a vicious temper. He was the terror of every mining camp, rig, and moon colony that we ever lived in. Our mother often had to raise money to pay his legal bills, silence his victims, and cover his gambling debts. Eventually, we got lucky, and, in a fit of rage, he beat a man to death.”
I grimaced, inadvertently interrupting the flow of our visitor’s narrative as she noticed my response and, responding to me directly, said, “I know how calloused that sounds but at ten I was a selfish little thing.” She made a wry little face. “I didn’t consider the dead man or his family until I saw them in court.
“Our stepfather received a life sentence for his crime, and that was the last that Julia or I ever saw of him. The night that our mother said that our stepfather would not come home again for several years, I felt the most profound sense of relief that I have ever known, before or since. He did, however, leave his mark. Most notably, Julia and I never slept without locking our bedroom doors.”
“Never?” demanded Sherlock Holmes.
“Never,” said Miss Stoner firmly, her fingers very briefly stilling. “We would not have felt safe otherwise. Even the night that my sister died, we locked our bedroom doors before bed. I remember hearing her lock snick shut. When I went to fetch her for breakfast, I had to use her pass code to get into her room. I remember it, because it was unusual. She was usually up before then.”
When Holmes inclined his head, Miss Stoner resumed her tale, her fingers tapping against her thighs.
“We immigrated to Mars after earning our respective doctorates, mine in astrophysics and astrogeology and Julia’s in robotics and biochemistry. I found work as an astrogeologist for an asteroid mining company, while Julia went into government research. Sometimes, she brought home bits of code to work on, but I never saw her projects. We rented apartments around Nerio until we had enough saved for a down payment on an apartment of our own. Our apartment is about a hundred and fifty square feet and has one entrance. It also has a window in each bedroom. The windows were locked the night that Julia died.”
“What happened to the apartment’s ownership after your sister died?”
“We bought the flat as joint tenants, and at her death I automatically inherited her undivided share. She died without a will so everything else will go to Dr. Roylott.” Miss Stoner scowled. “He’s only interested in her money. The doctor has already sent a routing number for a bank back on Earth.”
“What about your mother?”
Miss Stoner shook her head. “Our mother died in an accident last year.”
“Then to summarize: Your sister, who led a relatively quiet life and had no enemies, died alone, in a locked room, and without a mark upon her. Her death has been ruled natural even though its cause remains unknown.” At Miss Helen Stoner’s nod, he continued, saying, “I admit to a certain curiosity for your circumstances as you have laid them before us, but I will take your case upon one condition!”
The last three words were said at a much greater, more impressive volume than the rest of my friend’s statement so that he might be heard over the woman’s immediate and profuse thanks.
“What condition?”
“That you will abide by my results, whatever they may be. You will cease to hire hacks and get on with your life.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” pledged Miss Stoner, a certain triumph gleaming in her eyes and lingering at the corners of her mouth. “I will. I promise that I will.”
“Then I am at your service. If we were to visit Nerio this afternoon, would it be possible for us to see your apartment today?”
“Certainly,” said Miss Stoner promptly. “I’ll take the noon shuttle back to the city and meet you there.”
“Excellent!” Turning to me, Holmes asked, “Watson, will you have time today to accompany me?”
“Of course!” Nothing gave me greater pleasure than to observe Sherlock Holmes at his work. “I’m quite glad that you woke me for this.”
Holmes smiled. Turning back to Miss Stoner, he said, “We shall arrive sometime in the early afternoon.”
Substantively, that was the end of the conversation
, although there were still other social niceties to be observed. Holmes invited the young woman to breakfast, which she politely declined, saying that there were one or two matters that she would like to attend to in Phoebus’ spaceport before returning planet side. She promised once more to meet us that afternoon then left in a flurry of bright fabrics.
When she was well and truly gone, I turned on my friend, aghast.
“You cannot intend to take that poor, grieving woman’s money!”
“I don’t see why not. Regardless of my findings, I am doing her a service.”
“Because it’s immoral,” I erupted. “There’s no job for you to do! Sometimes people just die for reasons that medical science cannot yet explain!”
“And sometimes they’re murdered,” returned Holmes. He regarded me narrowly from over his steepled fingers. “I shall discover which happened to the late Miss Stoner so that the one yet living may get on with the business of living her life to its fullest extent.”
Well, when he put it like that… “I’m sorry, Holmes. I misjudged you.”