A Murder Most Dapper | A Werewolves in Space novella

The First Clue

Oliver Ambrose knew three things for certain. First, Brasslantis would drift over Mars on it's unobtanium base long after it's founders were gone. Second, at Brasslantis's altitude, steam could be achieved at eighty degrees Celsius. And finally, Professor Quimby Sterlingwell was absolutely and unquestionably innocent. Now, he just had to figure out how to prove it.

"What will we do?" Juliet sobbed into her third lace handkerchief in the last twenty seven minutes. Oliver knew precisely how long because when he fidgeted with nerves he always checked his assortment of watches. He was currently watching the ticking seconds of the gears in his second favorite pocket watch. 

He sighed, snapping the watch lid shut and faced Julia. 

"There is no time to waste!" He exclaimed after wasting twenty seven minutes in shock. "We should examine the scene for clues."

"Clues?" Juliet asked. "But the police force have roped off that half of the auditorium. They won't let us in, will they?"

And in fact the auditorium was indeed roped off with the police conducting an investigation on one side, and the paramedics tending to the feinted women on the other. It took a great deal of time to loosen the many corsets and tend to the fallen damsels, despite the constant warnings from the Bureau of Brasslantis Health stating that waist clinchers were a bad idea at this altitude. Otherwise, Oliver and Juliet were the only civilians who had stayed behind.

"The only one's they will allow behind the tape are detectives," Juliet said as she pulled out a fourth clean handkerchief, dabbing it around her eyes. "And you, Oliver, are no detective."

"We'll see about that." Oliver stood up with determination and walked from their table to the open bar at the back of the room. He leaned over the counter and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. 

"What on Mars do you think you're doing?" Juliet asked, hands on her hips but carefully placed so as not to disturb any of her dress's spinning gears.

"I'm playing detective!" Oliver said, and he dabbed the bourbon on his wrists and neck like a cologne. He then unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt and vest, and mussed up his hair. 

"Here, hold this." Oliver handed his top hat to Juliet, who gasped.

"Your hat? But Oliver! You'll look like a drunkard who's got a hard past and a chip on his shoulder!"

"That's the point, Juliet." Oliver squared his shoulders and headed to the police rope. "Now, stand back and watch while a real detective solves the case!"

Oliver put on his most brooding face and shoved his hands in his pockets, walking over to the police line. He clenched his jaw, put on a frown, and loosened his tie.

"Sir! You cannot be here right now, sir. We have a crime scene on our hands." One of the officers that Dappersby left behind was watching the police rope, turning away civilians as he drank tea from his standard-issue gear-powered hip flask.

"Stand aside," Oliver growled. "I've got a case to solve. Don't you know a detective when you see one?" 

And indeed, when the officer looked closer at the man before him all he could see was a disturbed alcoholic who probably had a dark past and a chip on his shoulder. 

"My word, detective. So sorry, come on in." The officer lowered the rope and allowed Oliver through to the scene surrounding Professor Quimby's invention and the murdered woman who lay on it. 

"Thank you," Oliver said as he stepped over the rope.

"What was that?" The officer asked, narrowing his eyes at Oliver.