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.
"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.