Clockwork Killer (Steampunk Detectives: Book 1)

by Hall, Ian

  “She’d like that,” I walked away, and dismounting to the earthen road that served as our main street, packed my mail into my saddlebags. I dipped my Stetson, and quickly mounted, I had more errands to perform.

  Mister Matheson’s general store proved busy, but I didn’t mind. I quickly walked through the milling public to the gun display. Bright and shiny Colts filled the display, but not the one I’d been saving for. Since father’s leaving for the war, way back in 1862, I’d been in charge of most of the commercial dealings of our orchard business. With only a small allowance granted from mamma, I’d skimmed successfully for almost four years. No one knew the depth of my sticky fingers, but I’d been astute in some of my purchases, and the family had never suffered because of my dealings.

  I looked from the counter, and waited on Mister Matheson to finish with his customer. As he waved goodbye to the woman, he winked in my direction. I walked forward, perhaps too eagerly. “Is it here?” I asked with all the enthusiasm of a twelve-year-old.

  Matheson nodded conspiratorially, and motioned me behind the counter and into the back shop. “It came last week.” He lifted a polished box from a shelf and placed it on top of sacks of grain. Two clasps opened the inside to my eyes, and a beautiful revolver sat inside. It was slightly shiny, and its plain looking silver-grey barrel did not look too different from the usual Colt model, but I knew different. This was a Smith and Wesson Model Two. No more packing my own cartridges, no more taking three minutes to re-load. Colt had tried hard to get their own metal cartridge version, but they were tied up in legal battles with the inventor.

  “It’s taken its time getting here.” I had ordered this gun three months previously, and although many soldiers had come back from the war with these in their holsters, Mister Matheson had assured me that this was the first ‘new’ one in town.

  “Blame the war.” He said, the common phrase to cover any eventuality in the last four years.

  I flipped my colt from its holster and settled the new Smith and Wesson in its place. “Snug.” I said to the tall shopkeeper. I drew it quickly, and felt the slight increase in weight. “Do you have cartridges?”

  Matheson nodded. “Plenty,”

  “I’ll take a couple of hundred.” I placed the pistol back in the box and closed the clasps, tucking the wooden box firmly under my arm.

  “Intend to start a war of your own?” he motioned that I go back into the main shop.

  “No, I just want to get used to it.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “Is the price the same as we agreed?”

  “Twenty-six dollars to you, Mister Smalling,” Matheson crowed. “Ammunition will be extra, of course.”

  On the way out of town I stopped at the blacksmith for special copper bottle tops to allow rubber tubing to be added to my bell jars. I checked the braising on the welds, and they looked to be top quality, as usual. “Are you still making that hard cider?” he asked, packing the copper parts carefully in wrapped newspaper before sliding them into my saddlebags.

  “Just drop by anytime, Clem,” I replied, knowing he never would.

  In four years since father had been gone, I’d gone from apprentice cider maker to master. None of the hands could best my knowledge on any part of the process, and had long since stopped trying. Smalling’s Apple Farm had passed into my hands without a piece of paper being signed. I actually took great pride in my improvement of father’s method. I had eliminated the browning of the apples with more efficient chemicals, and not produced a bad batch in two years.

  I rode home with the exuberance of my mail and my pistol purchase, eager to get to grips with both as soon as my work allowed. Spring wasn’t exactly a difficult period on the orchard, but pruning did take time, and early pest control produced results in the fall. I even made my own pest spray, carefully handling the powders to ensure the correct mixture.

  As I neared the farm, I took great joy in seeing Margaret standing outside, tending to an ivy creeper that grew on the north side of the house. Secateurs clipped naturally in her hands. On hearing my horse, she looked up. “Francis!” she smiled. My, the world seemed to brighten by her presence.

  “Margaret,” I swung from my saddle, and crossed the garden to her side. “You look busy.”

  I saw tears begin to build. “I had to, Francis,” her face smiled, but the expression remained only on the surface. “Mamma is almost catatonic; I simply had to get out of the house.”

  “Do you want to see my new purchase?” I asked, hoping the change in subject would distract her back to her previous mood.

  Her expression became far more serious on the sight of my new pistol. “Francis, you can’t change what happened.”

  “No, sis, this has nothing to do with what happened.” I almost laughed her cares away. “I ordered it three months ago. It’s a new revolution in ammunition design. No more pouring of powder. The bullets come already packed in small metal tubes.” I fished out one of the boxes Matheson had sold me, and showed her the shiny copper cartridge.

  Now she looked interested. “I never liked guns because of the powder thing.” She picked the Model 2 out of the box. “It’s still heavy.”

  I placed the box on the ground and took the gun back. “But you can use it two-handed, like this.” I placed my left hand on top of my right, holding the small wooden stock.

  To my delight, she took the gun from me and duplicated my pose. “That feels much better.” She said excitedly.

  “We could practice later, if you’d like?” I asked.

  For a second her eyes seemed to register a flicker of her old self, then her expression clouded, and she handed the gun back. “I don’t know.”

  “And there’s always pruning to be done.” I attempted a joke; she hated any manual work with the apple trees. I was rewarded with a sharp punch to my shoulder and I reeled in mock pain.

  I left Margaret standing on the porch, and headed to my summer house, where I unpacked my mail.

  Journal Scientifique, the title scrolled across the top of the magazine. It only had eight large pages, but its contents looked interesting as I skipped the articles. ‘Manet’s New Moving-Iron Indicator’, ‘A New Perspective on Invasive Phrenology’, an English study by the looks of it; typical of the French to re-credit the details so soon.

  I had two month’s copies of Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, and to my joy the second had been completely given over to Scotland’s James Clerk Maxwell. With wide eyes, I began to read the newest segment on his ground-breaking work on electromagnetism. The article contained pictures, drawings of both his equipment and his theories, but most of all; one page was devoted to the bones of his actual theorem; the formulas, all in their resplendent glory.

  The latest diatribe, entitled A Dynamical Theory of the Electromagnetic Field was the third paper to be published, and I’d read the first two until the paper had begun to tear from overuse. As I read quickly through the words, I almost cried.

  James Clerk Maxwell agreed with me. “He agrees with me!” I shouted, raising my fist high into the air.

  “Who does?”

  I spun to see my mother standing at the open door.

  I could contain my excitement no longer. I brandished the paper in front of me. “Maxwell agrees that electro-magnetic forces travel through space at the speed of light!” I could see not one iota of recognition on her face. “They travel as waves, Mamma!”

  “Hank needs your help down on the south east side,” she said simply, ignoring my claim. “There’s been another hole bust in the fence.”

  I nodded and smiled. “Yes, Mamma.” And she turned and walked away. “I’ll get right to it.” Her son’s independently-worked theories had just been confirmed by the most eminent scientist of the day, and mamma wanted me to pick up my tools and head to the south-east pasture to help a laborer fix a fence.

  But to my own credit, that’s just what I did.

  Hank and I strung a new section of wire. As
I hammered the u-shaped nails into the posts, I couldn’t help but wonder how much electro-magnetism I could cause if I connected my bell-jar batteries to the wire.

  I could almost see the curved wave of particles encircling the steel, and yet still had the presence of mind to chat about the weather, the good crop of blossom on the trees, and anything else that crept into Hank’s windpipe.

  Talk about being brought down to earth.

  Paul Chapman, Smalling Apple Farm, Sangamon County, Illinois

  April 28th 1866, (Six days before)

  I rode up to the Smalling place exactly two weeks after the murder had been committed. The farm looked to be an orchard with acres of neatly trimmed apple trees running for almost half a mile back to the main road.

  “This the Smalling place?” I asked a young man who had just left the main ranch house.

  “Yes, sir, my name’s Francis. How may I help you?”

  Francis Smalling looked a typical gangly teenager, with a windswept shock of brown hair atop a thin face. Blazing intelligent eyes stared across at me as I eased my sore backside from the saddle. “I’m Paul Chapman, from Cook Country Sheriff’s office.” I examined his face more closely, a thin, downy moustache and beard seemed to be his attempt to look older. “I’m investigating a series of murders.” Instead of the usual steps to withdraw, he seemed to surge with enthusiasm.

  I looked at the appropriate page in my notebook. “Francis Smalling.” I read. Brother, witness. “I wonder, son, if I may take some of your time today.”

  He nodded and patted his back pocket. “Well I have my work up at the orchard.”

  “I can walk with you, if you don’t mind.” I said, and we set off, conversation passing freely between us.

  “What’s in your back pocket?” I asked after he’d tapped it several times. He handed it to me without explanation. The paper had frayed slightly, but in bold easily-read handwriting, Francis had written a description of the suspect.

  Six foot, probably. Right handed.

  Flat ears, large nose, long fingers, he bit his nails.

  Wide brimmed hat.

  Almost new, black boots, maybe military.

  Accent was mid to southern.

  Sword had a black handle, gold filigree.

  Slight limp on his left leg.

  I read the note twice. “You’ve got a keen eye.”

  “Thank you,”

  “You don’t mind if I take this with me.”

  He shook his head. “I have my own copy,” He tapped the side of his head. “Up here.”

  “You did well Francis.” I read his notes back to him, and asked if he’d since remembered anything else, but he replied to the negative.

  Then I asked him to recount the whole thing to me. “From start to finish,” I added.

  Considering the sparse details that I’d been given all those months back, Francis Smalling proved to be a fantastic witness. No embroidery, no adding his own personality, just fact after fact. Once he’d exhausted the events of the 14th, I decided to divulge the details of the other cases.

  “There’s a pattern.” He stated immediately.

  I blanched at the speed of his mind. “Young girls,” I said.

  “No, not that; the dates,” he looked at my notes, looking for some form of confirmation. “All roughly six months apart.”

  I looked at my notes, knowing that was not the case. “No, five months between the first two.”

  “But that could just be ascribed to a delay by winter or summer weather.” He replied glibly. “A change in harvest time, perhaps he’s a seasonal worker.”

  I had to steady myself. He looked so young, yet he’d already given me fuel for thought after such a short visit. “So we have to work out what he’s following; what crop?”

  “It could be any, or none.” Francis said, his eyes sparkled as the thought processes continued. “He’s following the heat. I suspect he holds up somewhere for winter.”

  I decided to ask questions to push him further. “In Wisconsin?”

  To my surprise he shook his head immediately. “No, he kills on the way north in the spring. Have you got any fingerprints yet?”

  “Fingerprints?” I asked, as I considered his last statement; he kills on the way north in the spring. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “Follow me.” he turned and walked down the slight incline then up a pathway to a many sided almost round building, with windows on every facet, all painted from within. “What is it?”

  “This place?” he opened the door and led my inside. Oh boy. The building was a cornucopia of everything that a mad professor would have in his laboratory. Jars of liquid with metal objects inside, and all wired in some complex pattern.

  “It’s our summer house.” He replied.

  He shook his head, and crossed to one rack of batteries; large glass jars with electrodes jammed into round cork stoppers. “What are these?” I asked.

  “Batteries,” He leafed through a tidy pile of journals. “I’m currently linking them to this small piano. As I play the piano keys, different sounds are played over on the other side. It’s a kind of telegraph, but I don’t use mores code. I’ve went beyond that. I can get letters without dots and dashes.”

  I shook my head at his ingenuity. “But you’re just a kid.” I said, still somewhat overcome with the contents of Francis Smalling’s ‘Summer House’.

  He seemed to find the edition he had searched for. “All Fingerprints are Unique.” He said, quoting from the paper.

  “I think I knew that,” I said, “but we have no way of getting them from any surface except glass.”

  “That’s not the case,” he tapped the paper. “Sir William Herschel has ‘lifted’ fingerprints from wood, and Paul-Jean Coulier demonstrated that passing paper over iodine fumes can bring out prints on paper.”

  I stood both impressed, embarrassed, and astonished at his broad knowledge. “What’s the date of that paper?” I asked, striving to regain some semblance of superiority.

  He turned it back to the front page, and held it up for me to see.

  Journal Scientifique, Novembre 1863.

  Not only had he been far ahead of me in every way, he’d been translating from French as he’d read it to me.

  I rode north to Chicago in deep thought most of the way.

  Four days later a letter arrived.

  To Paul Chapman, Pinkerton Detectives, Chicago, Illinois.

  I opened it and immediately found it to be from Francis Smalling. I shook my head at the date; April 28th. It had been written the same day we’d met, and had taken just eight days to reach me.

  28th April.

  Dear Mister Chapman.

  Perhaps you’ve already thought of this, but I write anyway.

  I thought about your dates. Both first murders are dated before the end of the war, so if the killer is a southerner, he’s possibly a deserter. But giving him a modicum of intelligence, perhaps the southern aspect is just to throw us off the scent. Maybe he’s a Union soldier, and the dates of the murders are his times of leave from the fighting.

  Please accept my apologies for being so forward.

  Yours

  Francis Smalling

  Minutes later I stood in Pinkerton’s office with a wild request. “I want us to offer Francis Smalling a job.”

  Pinkerton looked at my notes long and hard. “And you say this lad gave this level of testimony?”

  “I’ve never met anyone like him.” I said, handing over the letter. “And he also could be invaluable in getting the criminology course under way. He’s more up to date than anyone I’ve met.”

  Pinkerton rubbed his fingers deep into his beard as he read, pulling it downward over his tie, then frowned up at me. “I trust you, Paul. Make him an offer; see if he bites.”

  “I feel quite confident he will.” I said, nodding. “He’s quite interested in seeing the southerner brought to justice.

  “Not to mention he’ll be able to make a snap identific
ation if we ever catch up with the suspect.” Pinkerton mused. “He’s one of the few who’s witnessed the act in person, and if he’s as quick as you say he is, he’ll be a great asset to us.”

  “What wage will I offer?”

  “Hmm…” Pinkerton wavered. “What are you earning right now?”

  I grinned internally, Pinkerton knew fine well what I earned. “Since I started researching that criminology course, I cost you $78 per week.” I grinned as he winced. “Plus expenses.”

  Pinkerton peered up at me. “Try him on half of that.”

  “How high can I go?”

  “$50. No more. I mean, he’s just a boy.”

  “No boss, try to look at it this way; maybe he’s also the genius you need for your criminology project.”

  So three days later I returned to the grove of apple trees.

  When I reached the house, I heard gunfire. Not a gunfight, but more single shots, pretty evenly spaced.

  I loosened my pistol in its holster, and flipped my coat-tail free for easy access. But I needn’t have bothered. Francis Smalling stood in a hollow, drawing from the hip, and firing at a large piece of wood stuck into the ground. He had a flowing style, and looked pretty fast.

  I waited until he’d stopped to reload. “Nice shooting.”

  He turned quickly, with me in his sights, then looked embarrassed to have been so aggressive. “Detective Chapman,” he said, holstering the pistol slowly.

  “Paul, please.” I quickly countered.

  He glanced at my sidearm, ready to use. “I see you also prefer the Smith and Wesson.”

  “Model Two.” I grinned as I dismounted. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  He squinted his eyes, as if sizing me up. “I think I could provide you with a fair opponent.”

  Within minutes we had set up the board with a cardboard target.

  “One shot,” Francis said, a grin escaping his lips. “Center body.”

  We both fired, and our shots snapped through the card at roughly the same place, we stood unable to discern each other’s shots, they’d fallen so closely together.