Лаура Гилман - The Underwater Ballroom Society

“And you saw no one upstairs? On the stairs? Descending?”

She shook her head.

“Thank you, Emily.” Bertrand turned to the elderly couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Compton, isn’t it? Did you see anything more?”

The old man shook his head. “We were some yards behind the young lady. But it is as she said. The whistling. The… falling man. I heard him cry out before he hit.”

Alive when he fell, then.

Bertrand peered at the waiting guests. “I, ah, have invited all of you here because, other than by word of members of your own families, we have not been able to confirm your whereabouts at the time of the murder. I hasten to add that this does not make you suspects. Merely that we need to eliminate you from our enquiries as quickly as possible. If it is all right, we have a few questions for each of you. Shall we start with the Comte d’Arcy?”

The Comte didn’t respond.

“Comte?”

Still nothing.

Bertrand raised his voice and waved at the Comte. “Comte? Sir?”

The Comte started. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you having trouble with your hearing?” Harriet asked loudly.

The Comte shifted his gaze to her. “The pressure of the water. I have always suffered from problems when the pressure rises or falls too far. I endure.”

Of course you have , Harriet thought. The Comte was in his late thirties, Harriet guessed, and fit with it. The right height, too . She remembered cupping her hands and clapping them across her unseen attacker’s ears. Hard enough to burst an eardrum .

“May we ask you some questions?” Bertrand said.

The Comte inclined his head.

“Could you tell us what you are doing here?”

The Comte sighed. “It is a Society event,” he said in scarcely accented English. “One feels obliged to lend one’s presence. It is a bore, but we all have obligations.”

Bertrand shuffled awkwardly. “And did you know the victim?”

“I understand the fellow was a servant. How would I know him?”

Bertrand consulted his notes. “He was previously a footman to Lord Barton. Did you ever visit Lord Barton’s house?”

The Comte shrugged. “It is possible. I could not be expected to notice the servants. I pay no heed to such class of person.” His eyelids slid half closed, as though he were too bored to continue. “I expect I shall have forgotten you, too, by tomorrow. Diverting though this is.”

Harriet’s hackles rose. Slow breaths .

“I’m sorry to hear about your ears, Comte.” She smiled sweetly. She’d been practicing that smile and it was now almost convincing. “I would hate to cause you further pain, but I have one more question. I have been reading about you in the papers. You have made a trip to Earth for each of the last four years.”

“I maintain a house in London. My estates in France have been lost to the monster Napoleon, and London is not what it was, but still. One must respect one’s duties.”

“That must be expensive.”

The Comte turned his head away. “I would not know.”

“The papers say you always travel with dozens of large boxes.”

“Harry,” Bertrand whispered, “I don’t see…”

Harriet silenced him with a raised hand.

“My furniture,” the Comte said. “It has been in my family for generations. I would not be without it.”

Convenient . Harriet could not imagine the furniture would be searched. It would be a easy way to smuggle valuable Ancient Martian artifacts, and a profitable one, too. Certainly enough to keep him in his trans-planetary lifestyle.

“Where were you when James Strachan died?”

“In my rooms, preparing for the ball. As I should be now.”

“And yet your man wasn’t with you,” Bertrand said.

“I sent him to press my jacket. It had become creased during the journey.”

“That’s true,” Bertrand told Harriet. “His man was witnessed by two of the footmen.” He raised his voice. “Thank you, Comte.”

The man lifted his chin and looked away again. Bertrand peered at the other guests. Harriet could see the desperation on his face.

Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Reginald Pratt pushed himself away from the wall, smirking. “This is going well. Let me help you out. I came because I was invited. I have never met your victim. I have no interest in killing servants. I have no proof of any of that and no alibi. Is that helpful?” He swept his arm around the room. “I would put a few pounds on everyone here giving you the same answer. Only”—he placed a thoughtful finger on his chin—“I don’t suppose your family have a few pounds to wager.” He let out a bellow of a laugh.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick straightened. “I see nothing amusing in this situation, sir. It is an inconvenience and an unwelcome one.”

“Then, ah, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, might I ask what you and your husband are doing at the Louros Hotel?” Bertrand said.

“My husband is a famous man. He was invited. We did not know the poor young man who died. I do not know why we are suspects. My husband is not in the habit of killing people.”

Bertrand almost choked. Harriet nudged him.

“I beg your pardon,” Bertrand said. “Bit of a frog, you know?”

“We were in our room the entire time,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said.

Sir Lancelot leapt forward so quickly Mrs. Fitzpatrick almost fell off her chair.

“Why should we believe you? How do we know you are not lying?”

Colonel Fitzpatrick’s eyes hardened. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. But it was as though the massed guns of Napoleon’s mechanized divisions had turned as one towards Sir Lancelot. Sir Lancelot paled. He took a step back and cleared his throat.

“Perhaps we should move on?”

“You’ve travelled to the Lunae Planum?” Harriet said.

Colonel Fitzpatrick nodded slowly. “What is the relevance of that, young lady?”

“We’re simply trying to establish information. I hear you were looking for a dragon tomb.”

“I obtained a map showing the location of an undiscovered tomb, but we were unable to locate it.”

“What exactly is the point of this line of questioning?” Sir William said. “We are investigating a murder, not discussing tours of Mars.”

Bertrand shot Harriet a pleading look. The point, Harriet thought, was that Colonel Fitzpatrick could easily have made contact with the smuggling gang in Lunae City, but she could think of no easy way to ask the question.

“Perhaps we should turn to Mr. and Mrs. Edgeware,” Bertrand said. “They have visited Lunae City, too, I believe. Perhaps, Mr. and Mrs. Edgeware, you could tell us the purpose of your visit here? You mentioned an interest in the ruins?”

“Oh yes. My husband has a great enthusiasm for anything Ancient Martian, don’t you, my dear?”

“Their civilization was astonishing,” Mr. Edgeware said.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick snorted in a most unladylike manner.

“My husband was lucky enough to come into an inheritance,” Mrs. Edgeware said. “His aunt, God rest her soul. We decided to spend it visiting all of the great ruins on Mars.”

Harriet made a mental note to check the newspapers for any reports of such a death and inheritance.

“About our victim,” Bertrand said. “Did you meet him?”

Mrs. Edgeware nodded. “I think so. Do you remember, Colin? We couldn’t find our room, and the young man showed us the way.”

“Did he seem nervous?” Harriet said. “Agitated?”

Mrs. Edgeware shook her head.

Bertrand leaned forward. “Was he whistling?”

Harriet closed her eyes. What was this obsession Bertrand had with the whistling?

Mrs. Edgeware gave Harriet a confused look. “Yes. Well, he stopped when we approached him, but he did whistle. Not terribly well.”