A Murder Most Dapper | A Werewolves in Space novella

The First Clue

"Oh, uh. I meant thank you, you incompetent buffoon."

"Oh, right. Carry on, detective." The officer pulled the rope back in place, and went back to his tea.

"Well that was remarkably easy," Oliver mumbled to himself. Turning to the body, Oliver watched as two doctors examined the corpse. From what the young student-turned-detective could discern, she was rather well off as her dress had no less than five hundred buttons and her goggles no less than twelve different lenses. Her blank face stared up at the ceiling as the inspection continued around her.

"Excuse me, doctors," Oliver stopped the men at their work. 

"What did you say?" One of the doctors frowned and removed his leather gas-mask-esque device from his chin. 

"Um, I said can't you run your tests any faster? I have a case to solve!" Oliver deepened his frown and waited for a reply.

"Oh, sorry detective. Didn't see you there." The other doctor now turned to him and the first replaced his mask. "We're still concluding a cause of death, but we have been able to identify the body. This was once a miss Phoebe Lushington, heiress to the First Bank of Brasslantis."

"I see," Oliver crossed his arms over his chest, careful not to catch his many cuff links on his several pocket watch chains. "Who on Mars would ever want to murder such a public figure? They must know the case would draw added attention."

The doctors looked at each other and shrugged. "Money, fame, revenge. Who knows, you're the detective."

"Right, we're just trying to conduct doctor business here." 

"I don't think we can do much more with the scene of the crime," the first doctor said. "Merrywhether, did you get the crime scene picture yet?"

"I just finished!" A short man with an impressive set of mutton chops came around from behind Oliver, holding a box with gears spinning all around it. "These new steam-powered cameras are fantastic, only thirty minutes to take a picture!"

The doctors and the officer at the rope all stopped what they were doing to clap. "Marvelous, the wonders of Brasslantis never stop amazing me."

"Right you are, doctor," the other doctor said. "Well, I think this is all we can do here. Officer, if you'll help us place miss Lushington on the stretcher, we can be on our way to the lab."

The officer and doctors lifted the victim on the stretcher, revealing a bloody puddle on the professor's invention.

"Oh dear!" the first doctor exclaimed. "It would appear the young woman was stabbed in the back with a brass knife!" 

"Well," the other doctor chuckled. "I suppose that's our cause of death then!" 

The officer and Merrywhether praised the doctors on their brilliant discovery, while Oliver kept his eyes on the knife. Initials were scrawled elegantly in the handle. 

P.W.

"Look here, fellows!" Oliver pointed to the knife which was left sticking from the poor woman's rib cage. "There are initials on that weapon!"

"Smashing work, detective!" The officer clapped. "I would expect no less from, er. Dreadfully sorry good sir, what was your name again?"

"Detective Ambrose," Oliver offered. "You, uh, buffoon."

"Right, very sorry, sir." The officer tipped his hat to Oliver. "I'll get this body back to the station lab with the doctors and leave you to your work."

"Good luck, Ambrose," the first doctor said. 

"Yes, do let us know if you need anything from the lab!" called the other doctor. 

And they all loaded up the body from the stretcher and into the vehicle waiting outside the auditorium doors. 

"A knife with the initials P.W. on it." Oliver tapped his chin in thought. "And one notable miss Phoebe Lushington. This is quite a mystery."

He sighed, and went back over the police rope where Juliet was fanning herself with yet another lace handkerchief.

"Oliver!" Juliet cried. "What have you learned?"

"Well," Oliver brushed a bit of lint off his sleeve, a motion he always assumed made him look clever but it never did. "We have a murder weapon with initials, we have the name of the deceased, and I'm growing my reputation as a detective. We should be able to get in just about anywhere soon."

"So who was that woman? She looked familiar. I know I must have seen here about somewhere. Perhaps we use the same dressmaker?" Juliet handed Oliver back his top hat.

"Our unfortunate victim was one miss Phoebe Lushington of the First Bank of Brasslantis Lushingtons." Oliver took his hat back with a sigh. 

"Oh no!" Juliet said. "I thought I recognized her. She used to have her Sunday brunch at the country club every week."

"You take brunch at a country club?" Oliver asked. "Wait, how can Brasslantis have a country club when there is no expanse of ground to-"

"Oh not brunch silly!" Juliet cut him off with a giggle. "I'm there on Sundays for the fantastic steam powered chess matches. My, those dashing gentlemen get a lady all riled up when they cry out check mate! But I recall seeing her in the brunching room nearly every Sunday."

"Of course," Oliver said. "Well, at least we have a lead now. Why don't we ask around the country club about possible enemies of miss Lushington? Perhaps we can find a new lead."

"Of course!" Juliet exclaimed. "We must clear Professor Sterlingwell's name!"

"We will, Juliet. I swear it on my reputation as Brasslantis's greatest detective." Oliver strode for the front door of the auditorium, weaving in and around all the feinted women and paramedics who were still hard at work.

"But Oliver," Juliet protested. "You aren't a detective!"

"Aren't I?" Oliver asked dramatically as he opened the door, letting the sunlight in and creating shadow on his face as the sun hit his back.

"Well, no," Juliet said. "You aren't. Just now you-"

"Come, Juliet!" Oliver cried as he continued through the doorway. "I have a case to solve!" 

And the delusional student and the bewildered young lady left the auditorium, possibly the most ill-suited duo to ever take on a murder case.