The Adventure of the Skittering Shadow: Sherlock Holmes in Space (6 page)

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.