“No one was with you,” sneered Sir Lancelot. “You could have snuck out, murdered poor Strachan, and returned, leaving no one the wiser.”
The manager was already shaking his head. “No, I couldn’t. The only way I could get from my office to where Mr. Strachan died was to pass through the main foyer. The front desk is always staffed. I could not pass through unwitnessed. You may feel free to test the route yourself.”
“Oh.” Sir Lancelot slumped. “Well, then… I knew that! It was a ruse. I—”
Sir William cut him off. “I’ve had enough of this. Simpson, who is the murderer? I demand you tell me immediately. You have inconvenienced everyone far too greatly.”
Bertrand stared. His mouth moved soundlessly.
It was too soon. Harriet’s fingernails bit into her palms. She had suspects, theories, but no proof and she didn’t know.
“Well?” A cruel smile had worked its way onto Sir William’s face.
Bertrand shuddered, as though he had been stung by an electric wasp. Then his eyes blinked, once, slowly.
“I need ten minutes. Just ten minutes. If everyone would wait here…” He turned and raced for the door.
Hell! He was fleeing. Harriet didn’t blame him. He’d seen the end of his career staring him in the face, and he’d run. Harriet wanted to charge after him, but a dragging lethargy had settled on her, like she was trying to support the entire weight of the Valles Marineris on her back.
She had missed something. She knew she had. Something had been staring her in the face. But what?
Mr. Edgeware, Colonel Fitzpatrick, and Mr. Davies all had links to the Lunae Planum from where the unfortunate Mr. Strachan had travelled. Reginald Pratt knew how to identify her contact. The Comte had every opportunity to smuggle goods to Earth, and he was struggling to hear. One of them had to have killed Strachan. Maybe more than one of them. But which, and how could she prove it?
The guests were becoming increasingly impatient, and still there was no sign of Bertrand. What if he really had made a run for it? Would he climb into one of the submersibles and head back to shore without her?
“This is absurd,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. “How long must we remain here? I have already been inconvenienced enough.”
Colonel Fitzpatrick rose smoothly from his chair. He turned his cold gaze on Sir William. “We are leaving. I trust you will not attempt to stop us.”
He and Mrs. Fitzpatrick made their way to the door. The other guests rose to follow.
Come on, Bertrand. Where was he?
The door opened in front of the colonel. Bertrand hurried into the room, followed by an automatic servant carrying a large box. Bertrand looked flustered, but he smiled at the guests.
“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. If I could beg your indulgence for just a moment more…”
“It may have escaped your notice, young man, but the ball begins in only three hours,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. She looked him up and down. “There may be little you can do to prepare, but I have a position to maintain and I will not shame my husband.”
“Just a minute, I promise.”
Reluctantly, the guests made their way back to their seats.
“Well?” Sir William said. “Are you ready to end this façade, Simpson?”
“I believe I have discovered the murderer, sir,” Bertrand said. He glanced at the automatic servant. “Command: place the box on this table.” The automatic servant complied.
Harriet stared at her brother-in-law. This was going to be a disaster. Bertrand knew nothing about the package or the smuggling ring. Without that knowledge, he had no hope of uncovering the murderer. He was going to make a fool of himself. It would end his career.
Think, Harriet. Think! What had she missed? Who had killed James Strachan? Time was up. She had to solve it now.
“What nonsense,” Sir Lancelot exclaimed. “There is no way anyone could have figured it out.” He brushed a hand over his fine, blond hair. “Even I could not.”
Bertrand smiled. “Indulge me. You see, it all started with the socks.”
Harriet covered her eyes.
“What is this nonsense?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick demanded.
“Mr. Strachan was wearing socks that showed him to be a boy from Queen Anne’s Academy. That seemed peculiar for a footman, and it seemed to me very possible that something from his school days had come back to haunt him.”
“I’ve already told you I had nothing to do with it,” Mr. Davies said.
“Oh, I know you’re not the murderer,” Bertrand said. “But, as it turns out, you did have something to do with it after all.”
Mr. Davies shook his head.
“And there was another important clue. Emily and Mr. and Mrs. Compton heard a discordant whistling just before Mr. Strachan fell.”
“Enough of this,” Sir William growled. “Tell us who the murderer is.”
Bertrand inclined his head. “The murderer is Emily.”
The room erupted into noise. Emily’s eyes widened. Shock, Harriet thought. But shock because it was true or because she was being accused of murder?
“Piffle,” Sir William said. “The girl was observed by Mr. and Mrs. Compton at the precise time of Mr. Strachan’s death. Unless you are claiming that they were in on it, too.”
Mrs. Compton let out a gasp.
“Of course not. But Emily did murder him and she arranged it all so that she would have an unimpeachable alibi. You see, when Mr. Davies here mentioned the name of the maid whom he had been interested in at school, it rang a bell. I knew I had seen that name somewhere before in one of the newspapers. So, I went to confirm it. That maid, Sarah Mason, is now an opera singer. In fact, she was the very one to replace Emily in the Tharsis City Opera Company.”
Mrs. Asheville turned to her husband. “I remember now. We attended a performance of The Barber of Seville the year after Miss Wright left. We saw Miss Wright’s replacement.” She turned to Emily, who was standing rigid to one side. “She wasn’t a patch on you, my dear. My husband commented as much. She could barely hold a note.”
“A little further digging,” Bertrand said, “led me to discover that Mr. Strachan’s father was a patron of the opera company. It became clear what must have happened. Mr. Strachan used his influence to have Emily dismissed and Sarah Mason hired in her place.”
“But the witnesses, Simpson. The alibi.”
“That is where Miss Wright was very clever. If you would allow me? Reverend Asheville. Could I ask a favor?”
The reverend nodded.
“Can you whistle?”
Reverend Asheville looked awkwardly around. “Not well.”
“Not well is perfect. Please would you whistle Voi Che Sapete, the aria for which Emily was famous?”
The reverend cleared his throat, then started to whistle. He was right, Harriet thought. He was not good. Not good at all. But Harriet didn’t have time to listen to him mangle the tune. Half-a-dozen notes in, the automatic servant lurched into motion, heading at speed toward the reverend, arms raised. The reverend squawked.
“Command: stop,” Bertrand said loudly. The automatic servant came to an abrupt halt.
“I found this automatic servant stationed on the balcony from which Mr. Strachan was pushed. You, Emily, lost your job and your career because Mr. Strachan wanted to do a favor for the maid he was trying to impress. When he came to work here and you heard him whistling your aria, you snapped. I searched your room, and I found these.”
He reached into the box and pulled out a set of small tools.