by Sam Gamble
“You recognize it?” inquired Holmes, visibly startling her. Julia Stoner had apparently been lost in her own thoughts.
“You know that I do.” Leaning back in her seat, Miss Julia Stoner lightly tapped a gloved fingertip against the tabletop. “Although it’s impossible to properly identify now, but that’s rather the point.”
“What can you tell us about it?”
“Everything,” she said with a quick, humorless smile. Angling the bit of carpeting towards Holmes, she said, “These work rather like a child’s remote control rover or spaceship. They’re designed to be small, fast, stealthy, and highly maneuverable. Their purpose is to deliver a lethal injection of poison to a target, the only evidence of which is a microscopic abrasion. The poison will break down with the corpse. All of the components can be printed at the public library.”
“Assuming that you knew how and could get around the printer’s preset limits,” I inserted, and Miss Stoner looked at me as if I had grown another head. Apparently, it was unfathomable that someone might not be capable of bypassing common security features to print esoteric weapons of murder.
“It’s not very difficult,” she said finally. To Holmes, she said, “They self-destruct after one use, leaving behind something that could have been tracked into the room or, in a worst case scenario, a drip of plastic that could be overlooked or seen and forgotten. Because of their size, they have a very short range. Helen’s murderer could have been in the nearest stairwell, on the fire escape, in the apartment above us, or in the one below. But he couldn’t have been any further away when he killed her.”
My blood ran cold at her intimate knowledge of the instrument of her sister’s destruction. If Julia Stoner truly was a researcher – and I found myself to have doubts on that point – then hers was not the sort of research that held my interest. That such a person could have come from such prosaic beginnings disconcerted me.
“He wasn’t,” reminded Holmes, and Miss Stoner grimaced. Cocking his head to one side, he added, “I suppose it is neither here nor there now, but I cannot help but wonder who recommended me to you.”
“A trusted colleague, Mr. Holmes,” she said, favoring him with her quick smile. “He is a great admirer of your career, although he is one that might prefer to remain unnamed under the present circumstances. I’m sure you know who I mean.”
I didn’t, but I could tell from the minute shift in his expression – and the crawl of color up his throat – that Holmes did. He flushed.
“And when he recommended me, was he speaking to you as yourself or to you as your grieving sister?”
“He called me Helen, but I think he knew the truth.” Julia Stoner smirked. “He’s clever like that.”
Holmes inclined his head. “And how much of what you originally told us was the truth?”
“Everything. I simply took Helen’s part in things and gave her mine.”
“Because you assumed that someone seeking to kill you had accidentally killed her instead,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It was sheer luck that the first spider killed your sister and not you.”
Julia Stoner sighed, her body sagging in her seat as if she had lost whatever vital force was driving her forward along with her breath. It was several quiet moments before she said, “I’ve always been lucky.”
We sat quietly and waited while the lady gathered herself. Slowly, breath by breath, she straightened herself out. Finally, she sat up, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. She took a very deep breath and held it. When she finally let it out, Julia Stoner was just as she had always been.
“Why did he kill her?”
“He needed money. As you told us at the beginning, Dr. Roylott always had a powerful need for it. When he got out of prison – a few years early, I might add, and ironically for good behavior – the doctor fell into his old vices, chief among them gambling. He lost a small fortune, and it was only the suspiciously timely death of his wife that kept him from his creditors’ worst impulses.”
“Did he murder her?” demanded Miss Stoner.
“I think most likely yes, although discovering the evidence of it would be difficult if not impossible to uncover at this juncture.”
Across from me, Miss Stoner paled. In the grips of some strong emotion, she was white-faced and tight-lipped, but her hands were as still and steady on the table as Holmes had said they would be.
“Unfortunately, one inheritance was not enough for him. He needed more than his wife was worth to him, and he hit upon the idea of paying a visit to his stepdaughters. A consummate gambler, he was willing to bet that, at their relatively young age, the twins had not yet thought to make out their wills. Or, if they had, that he had not been left entirely unprovided for.”
“He thinks rather a lot of himself!” I exclaimed, incensed.
“He was desperate. Dr. Roylott needed another quick infusion of cash to avoid an untimely death of his own, and he was willing to try almost anything. If worse came to worst and there was no profit to be made off of his scheme, he would at least have the advantage of being on an entirely different planet than his creditors. So he came to Mars, no doubt by illicit means, found his stepdaughters, and rented one of the micro apartments beneath theirs.”
“It seems rather convenient that one should come open for him.”
“The micro-apartment’s previous renter has yet to be found, and I very much doubt that he will be.”
Turning my mind to the case’s other loose end, I asked, “What about you, Miss Stoner?”
“I’ll return to work on Monday.”
“Won’t that be… difficult?”
Julia Stoner blinked at me. Finally, she said, “No, not at all. Stranger things have happened. They probably haven’t even closed my personnel file yet.”
“They haven’t,” quietly inserted Holmes. “And I am assured that you are a most valuable resource whose return to work is most eagerly anticipated.”
Julia Stoner’s smile was quick and bright.
That seemed like the end of that, especially when Holmes sat back in his seat and indicated that he was tired of discussing a completed case, but it was not quite the end. Two weeks later, Sherlock Holmes was summoned back to Nerio, this time by certain segments of the police force.
Alone in his cell, Dr. Grimesby Roylott had died an inexplicable death.
Sherlock Holmes inspected the cell, which even to my eye provided several means of entry for a particularly enterprising spider-assassin, but found no telltale blob of melted plastic. Nor did he find anything else of note. Nevertheless, we next went to visit Miss Julia Stoner in her apartment.
“Shouldn’t we call first?” I asked as Holmes flagged down a half-cab. The decal on its side proclaimed it to be part of the line run by Erebus Express. “And make certain that she’s home?”
“Of course she’s home!” snapped Sherlock Holmes impatiently. “Don’t you remember her schedule? The ex-husband said that she always ate dinner between seven and eight and was usually in bed by ten o’clock. It is now nine o’clock at night, and Miss Stoner should be preparing for bed.”
Clambering into the half-cab, he barked Miss Stoner’s address at the half-cab, which at least had the decency to wait until I was safely seated inside of it before zipping away from the curb.
For a time, Holmes sat silently beside me, chewing his nails and glaring at the passing scenery before suddenly resuming the conversation, as if there had never been a lull in it.
“It is almost a perfect crime, Watson, almost. There was no blot of plastic left behind for me to find, and there will be no trace of poison in the test results. To all appearances, Dr. Roylott will have died of natural, if inexplicable, causes.”
“But your client is the only one connected to this case who possesses the necessary skill set to create such an assassin,” I inserted, believing that for once I was the one following his thoughts.
“Do you really think so? I have little doubt that, if so motivated, she could have one
printed inside of an hour, but I tell you that I have known people like her before. They would not jeopardize their position within the government for so small a thing as personal vengeance. Their allegiance to Mars is absolute. No, it was not Miss Stoner, though I have no doubt that I am meant to believe it was her.”
“What position? Do you mean as a researcher?”
But Holmes merely pressed his lips together, shook his head, and resumed glaring at the city lights.
When we arrived at the Stoner apartment, Miss Julia Stoner was indeed home and resplendent in a green and black striped skirt gifted with a smattering of bright pink polka dots, a tight pink t-shirt, and a pair of leather gloves, currently black. I could not help but wonder how anyone could dress so badly.
“I heard about the doctor,” she said after she had closed the door behind us. “I don’t know how I feel about it. Stunned, I suppose.”
Sherlock Holmes did not bother to respond. Instead, he peered down at her, his manner reminiscent of an eagle watching for a fish. As ever, Miss Stoner seemed unbothered by the intensity of his regard.
“I came to ask if you knew of any variations on the spider-assassin,” he said finally.
“There are several, but snake and salamander shapes are the most popular. They’re bigger and slightly less maneuverable, but they have three advantages: they’re longer range, have better sensors, and are generally reusable. They’re both easy enough to make. Would like me to fabricate an example for you?”
“No thank you, Miss Stoner. The information is enough,” replied Holmes with a thin smile.
“I’ll also tell you this: everyone on Mars who is known to possess the skill set necessary to print them works in my department. Either we have overlooked someone or it was one of us. But, by and large, we are not suited for those sorts of shenanigans.” Tugging on a cuff, she added, “And those who might be have their priorities in order.”
“So I have been given to understand,” Sherlock Holmes said dryly.
Resting a hand on his sleeve, Miss Julia Stoner said softly, “I will forever be indebted to you for what you’ve done for me, Mr. Holmes. Should you ever need any help at all with anything, you just have to ask. I’ll be glad to help… except with this. I just can’t bring myself to care about my stepfather or his murder. However, should you choose to pursue it, I wish you luck with your investigation.”
And as far as Julia Stoner was concerned, that was the end of it. No speech, entreaty, or appeal to decency moved her. She did, however, remember to pay Holmes handsomely for his services, something that he was not as happy about as he otherwise might have been. Nor was Holmes pleased when the inquest found that Dr. Roylott died of natural causes, rather than foul play, mistreatment, or environmental factors.
“What will you do?” I asked my friend.
“I shall not drop it,” he responded after a short period of reflection. “Dr. Roylott’s death is part of a greater whole, one that I have only just begun to glimpse. But one day, I shall discover it and know its shape, function, and purpose.”
“How? There are no more clues for you to follow.”
“Have you not wondered where the doctor got his spider bots from?”
“No. I assumed that he had either brought them with him or perhaps printed them at the public library.”
“He is not Miss Stoner. I doubt that he possessed the technical skill necessary to override a public library’s computer system and code his own spider-assassins. And it would have been impractical to purchase the spiders before he knew what shape his murder plot would take, something that he could not have known until he had the opportunity to study his subjects in their native environment and going about their regular routines. No, he acquired the spiders after he reached Mars, and it is along those lines that I will continue my inquiries. Dr. Grimesby Roylott was not much of a man, but even he deserves to have someone take an interest in his murder.”
It was a noble sentiment, one that was characteristic of my friend. And it was in moments like this that I was most proud to know Sherlock Holmes and occasionally contribute in my own small ways to his work.
But I wished that he looked slightly less delighted at the prospect of a long term investigation into a felonious cabal that occasionally supplied spider-assassins to murderous old doctors.
For myself, I found it poetic that a man who had murdered so many was himself in turn murdered, and by the same means no less. It was not for me to say what Dr. Grimesby Roylott did or did not deserve, that right being reserved for a higher power, but the death of my fallen colleague did not weigh heavily on my thoughts, though it was an event to which Sherlock Holmes’ thoughts would often circle in the years to come.