The Galas of Silver Bend

An Archibald Velmont steampunk mystery

The township of Silver Bend prides itself on being kings of the aether trade. And twice a year they hold celebrations—galas in a grand hall in the town’s center. Tonight, the musical pride of the region, a band called the Big Big Aether Juggernauts played lively numbers with big beats, contrasted with refined ballads for the townsfolk to jump and waltz to. The gala was attended by many merchants, both local and across the oceans.

Inside the grand ballroom, the chandeliers above shone with a pink aether glow, softened and diffused by the steam created as a byproduct of the energy conversion. Flitter sconces made of ornate brass with intertwined silver lined the walls, emitting gold-glowing beams and the occasional shower of gold sparks. Aether-powered automatons dressed in formal serving tuxedos brought drinks and removed empty glasses throughout the grand hall. There was something new to their design this year which was still not fully accepted by some of the public: small chest mounds and a trimmer waist area for some of the automatons to distinguish a female server from a male. Controversial, because they are machines. And serving machines at that. It does not need to go down that dark alley of anthropomorphism that could lead to—well, that was the argument of those who thought it was something to be argued.

The gala was lively, with handsome and beautiful, ostentatious and divine attire, with conversations just as colorful that filled the room, as alive as the music. It was a happy occasion, and all were to celebrate it.

“Detective Archibald Velmont! So good to see you here tonight! Your reputation for solving the impossible precedes you! And I did not expect to see you so divinely dashing,” purred Councilor Evelyn Drake, her voice smooth as the glow of the pink aether illumination from the chandeliers bathing Silver Bend’s ballroom.

Arch gave a smart twist to his mechanical arm and it emitted a soft click. He flashed a roguish smile; his monocle flashed from a flitter sconce’s sudden shower of sparks.

“Flattery, Councilor, is a poor disguise for one’s curiosity—what might the council be surprising us with tonight?”

Her eyes glinted, betraying a secret. She turned her head down shyly while still staring at the detective behind her rapid fan.

Councilor Evelyn Drake was elegantly costumed in a long pink dress with silver woven into the over-corset and a row of tiny locks vertically fastening the front together. It seemed to tease a challenge for one to pick the locks, which of course she would playfully deny and proclaim absolute innocence. She was high-breasted, and her long neck was adorned with a matching pink choker. The detective did not let his fascination with her beauty betray his confident demeanor.

“Ahem!” exclaimed Clara, suddenly appearing in front of Archibald with a small (but intentional) bump into the Councilor that broke their gazing spell and forced Evelyn to find her balance again.

“Arch, I am concerned,” Clara began, her small tools on her vest clinking while coming to rest. She was actually more concerned with the pink-dressed hussy trying to grab her sweet detective’s attention, and persuaded herself—recognizing the moment as an opportunity to practice her latest emphasis on self-mastery—to put the thought aside. “Professor Lyman did not arrive. And his note this afternoon mentioned a ‘stolen spark,’ which he promised to explain to me tonight.”

Evelyn had ceased trying to burn Clara down with her eyes and had begun hungrily eyeing the detective again while fanning herself at an ever-increasing pace.

All the while Arch scanned the room, which meant sweep-aiming his monocle around. It was intentioned with the focus to note abnormal movement and to detect uncommon emotions from the norm of the environment.

A man in a very tall hat, which unnecessarily accentuated his dark, stork-like mortician appearance, was chatting with an aether merchant in one corner. It was a scene curious enough to make the monocle alert, focus closer, and raise the volume to hear the conversation. Arch soon wished he hadn’t.

The voice came in loud and clear from the man the dark stork was listening to.

“Yeah, you’ll find that listed in the bitchuaries. You know, when it’s a DUF: dead, ugly female? They write up a little story about her life.”

That smaller, plump merchant was dressed in the finest threads that any money could purchase. Expensive gems and rare fabrics constituted his many scarves, draped on his shoulders instead of wrapped around his neck in the conventional fashion. Impressively expensive. In contrast, there must have been no money spent on education nor on his horrid conversational skills, which left much to be desired—like gaping chasms of emptiness that wished to be filled. And yet, he spoke authoritatively, with an amount of certainty and pride that suggested he must be uncontested in his position.

“Banger space!” exclaimed Lord Cedrick (the black stork mortician), barely aloud, but still forcing a tight smile. He had come to the gala in hopes of meeting aether merchants who could be easily swindled out of some extra spark, but even this man was just too, too much… a menace to all and a danger to himself.

Archibald turned his attention once again to the desperately over- and simultaneously under-dressed Evelyn in front of him. There was no wondering what her motive for this evening was.

Arch paused just long enough to nod to her and then continued to scan the room.

A girl said behind her hand, in confidence to another young girl, midway across the room, gesturing with her other thumb at the tall mortician-looking gent, “Mom told me to stay away from the guys who have diminished spark. They may be fun and bad, but there is but a dim future awaiting you.”

Arch smiled to himself about how right she was.

“You know you should come over to my house for real fine dinner real soon,” the plump merchant in finery continued to the dark stork. “Mrs. is real pretty-like and she’s been practicing her cooking, which wasn’t so good when we met, but it’s really gotten almost near edible now. And since I am now knowing your distinguished name, Lord Cedrick, I’ll just ask around, lookin’ you up, to git yer address and send out a fancy invite for you and some of the other lords. It will be an incompressible super fancy exciting time for all.”

The conclusion rang again in his mind like all alarm bells for Cedrick: Not just a danger to himself but a danger to everyone. And his wife might only be a stealth weapon in disguise. The reason for a mass grave…

Lord Cedrick had taken his pocket watch out of his vest pocket. Its gold chain hung a lot too low to be anywhere near fashionable, even for a man of his height. He pretended to look at it to check the time, but his clumsy handling could easily be mistaken for someone attempting to aim it. Steadying his hand while closing one eye, he exaggeratedly pressed an ornate gold leaf raised on the side of the pocket watch. Immediately after the press, the merchant slapped his left hand to the right side of his neck, as if he had been bitten by an insect.

“Dang skeeters!” the merchant said quietly loud, as if trying to maintain politeness.

Head down, facing the floor, Lord Cedrick carefully glanced out of the side of his eye to check if he’d been noticed. No one noticed.

He sighed with relief to himself. And a mere fifteen seconds later, the plump, well-dressed merchant, in the middle of describing in detail dessert disasters that his Mrs. had made which made the family ill for weeks… mid-sentence the merchant stopped speaking, froze, stiff as a board, and in slow motion face-planted on the dance floor.

The monocle did its tiny bump on Arch’s face. It was now signaling that a glass had left its owner’s hand and was falling to the floor across the room.

CRASH!

The tinkle of shattering glass was faint at this distance.

The monocle bumped two more times and then settled. Surprise, fear, and terror began to sweep the room like a wave that hadn’t arrived where Archibald stood. But it was about to hit.

Next to him, two ladies were chatting. “Oh yes, he loves the school. He is doing so well. The faculty is absolutely buzzing that he is the most gifted intentioner they’ve seen since—”

Her mouth stayed open mid-sentence, but the words stopped coming out.

Gasps were suddenly louder than the music.

And the band chaotically stopped.

Shouts and a scream.

The dancing had also slowed to a confused standstill. A crowd gathered near the far wall.

Whispers filled the ballroom.

Archibald made his way in a fast beeline through the whispering crowd, his assistant Clara right on his heels. Arch’s aether monocle scanned the area as he approached the center of the scene, looking for any clue that would hint at what this excitement was about.

The tall, dark gent was registering an emotion that looked like fake surprise but was, in actuality, a flicker of pride followed by terror.

Arch silently noted this and got to the task at hand: a stiff, plump merchant body, face down, lying still on the ballroom floor.

“Help me roll him over! You and you! Heave!!”

Once the body was in position, the detective worked fast, scanning with his monocle for any smallest clue. Any slightest out-of-place item.

“Did anyone see anything?! How did this happen?! Who was nearby when he collapsed?!!”

“I… was…” a deep voice slowly drawled the words.

“And who are—you?!” the detective demanded as he stood.

“I… am Lord… Cedrick Harrow,” his words slithered out more like a low hiss than a voice.

The crowd responded in unison with an uncomfortable small step back.

“And how exactly would you describe what occurred, Lord Harrow?” Arch inquired, unimpressed with Cedrick’s large stature.

“He fell over. (Pause.) No visible cause. (Long pause.) Rather rude,” Lord Cedrick slowly hissed out.

“What was he drinking? Eating? Did he touch anyone? Anything?” Archibald demanded of Lord Cedrick and the rest of the guests.

Some band member in The Big Big Aether Juggernauts had started the band quietly playing “The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys.” There were quiet snickers here and there throughout the hall from the audience that got the joke.

Most of the crowd’s attention was trying not to look at the largest, darkest, most obvious foul thing in the room.

Several female-looking automaton servers had closed in on the scene, looking to Archibald for his order—seemingly.

The detective addressed them. “Did any of you see anything?!” said Arch, annoyed.

The two automatons on the outer edges of the group scurried away. The one in the middle started sparking, and pink smoke blew out from her neck. Its head spun around, eyes crossed. And its body spun continuously in the opposite direction of its now-spinning head. The band adjusted to match the beat of the malfunctioning, spinning server as its jam continued.

Arch displayed unfathomable focus, disregarding the hilarity of the moment and continuing to scan the lifeless body on the floor.

“Just one more question, Lord Ced—”

But when the detective looked up, Lord Cedrick was gone.

The monocle playback showed that he had left in a huff, his cape swirling behind him as he turned and rapidly stomped out.

Archibald paused.

The answers from the crowd confirmed there was nothing that anyone had seen.

The plump merchant had been in contact with no one else since arriving. No drink imbibed. No comestible sampled. No handshakes, fist bumps, kisses, or embraces.

Only the conversation with Lord Harrow.

Archibald Valmont addressed the room.

“Ladies, cover your delicate ears!” Arch yelled so that every guest could hear him.

He glanced at Clara and subtly shook his head, indicating exemption—she was not to cover her ears.

He smiled a small smile with just a corner of his mouth so she knew that he already knew something. And her job now was to play along.

The musicians all stopped on different beats. Silence fell on the great hall.

When satisfied that all ladies had their ears covered, he continued, “I will be brief. I have examined the evidence. No one has seen this man eating anything…”

Arch paused, fully aware of the absurdity of the statement given the size of the dead merchant.

“…here, at the Gala,” he added after an appropriate beat. “Nor did he imbibe. Nor was he attacked by an assailant. There can be no other cause than…the PHANTASMIC!”

He paused and let the effect be felt.

“One can only conclude, as I have concluded, that this murder was the work of a ghost!”

Archibald caught Clara’s eye and gave her a quick wink, then with a raised voice again addressed the crowd. “I vow to you, ladies and gentlemen, at this very moment, here at the Gala, to solve this mystery and bring this foul spirit to justice!”

He gestured that he was done.

As the ladies uncovered their ears, whispers and shrieks rang through the ballroom again as the news of a killer ghost passed as whispered gossip from one to the next, like high tide rushing in.

The party was over.

The band started up again anyway, but no one was dancing. They only excitedly conversed.

Arch left the ballroom with Clara sharp in step at his side.

“Do you really believe it was a ghost who committed the—” Clara tried to say.

“No, Clara. My monocle detected an odd trace of poison on the merchant’s neck. And our most stand-out suspect is Lord—” Arch spat in disgust, “—Cedrick Harrow. The poison was exotic. It was very out of place. I’m not certain yet exactly why I feel it doesn’t belong, other than the obvious: poison isn’t something one attends a gala with. But given that no one touched him—or his neck of all places—it was definitely, most definitely out… of… place… AH!”

The detective stopped and faced Clara.

“Not out of PLACE, dear Clara!”

Archibald spun excitedly in place, looking skyward.

“Out of—TIME! This poison does not belong in this time!”

The detective began walking again, head still up, looking to the night’s clouds.

Clara knew not to interrupt him now. She didn’t try to catch up. He would be entirely involved with his thoughts.

An airship’s slow propeller whirred overhead.

“The professor did not arrive tonight,” she muttered to herself, barely audible. She pondered it for a moment, and then she started again after Archibald down the cobblestone road into the foggy night.

A plump dead merchant.

A tall, thin, dark mysterious lord, obviously endowed (or non-endowed, as it were) with low spark.

A professor’s cryptic message—who did not himself arrive.

And a too-curious, over-ambitious Councilor!

“Evelyn, the pink lady, is probably behind this whole thing somehow!” Clara concluded to herself with finality.

“I’ll have to be extra vigilant in my search for clues. She is trouble, to be sure,” and prided herself on her complete lack of jealousy motivating her conclusion that night.

“The detective—MY detective—will remain safe.”