Clockwork Killer (Steampunk Detectives: Book 1)

by Hall, Ian

  To my shock, Francis fired back. “And do you think I should have left her alone in that farmhouse, while we’re down here?”

  I was taken aback, “Why, no, not on her own, certainly.”

  “Well I had two choices!” he bawled, now seeming to have hit his stride. “I could let her come with me, thus doubling the eye-witnesses at our disposal, or leave her unprotected.”

  “Your mother…”

  “Our mother is in a funny farm, partly thanks to Johnny Reb!” he cried. “And besides, sister Margaret coming along wasn’t my idea! I tried all last night to talk her out of it.”

  The girls seemed to hang their heads slightly. “Your idea?” I looked from one to the other. They both nodded.

  “Look on the bright side,” Emily began. “Francis and I can canvas the churches, asking about newlyweds, and such, and you and Margaret can infiltrate the abolitionists groups. Both teams of detectives will have a member who has actually seen the murderer. Having a woman at your side will provide you with a distraction for anyone looking out for the law. I mean, what self-respecting law-man would bring a woman along on an investigation?” I raised my arms in protest, yet to my own frustration I found my objections mollified by their arguments, and could not fault that part of her logic. “And Margaret here will have a man and a gun by her side, rather than sleep in an empty house witless with fear.”

  Damn if she didn’t make sense. “Well don’t say I didn’t warn you all.” I said rather limply, shutting the stable door after the horses had firmly bolted. But the die had been cast, we were all now in Jacksonville around the predetermined time of the next murder and I gritted my teeth to make the best of it all.

  The next morning Margaret and I scoured the small town looking for abolitionists’ meetings, only to find one that very noon in the town hall. To say we approached the building with some trepidation would have been a severe understatement.

  “Don’t allow any reaction, Margaret, even if you happen to see the man.” I offered. “Don’t establish eye-contact…”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t stare, my dear.” I patted her hand as I held it in mine. We had decided if asked to pose as newlyweds traveling to St Louis from Chicago. This would perhaps encourage our suspect out into the open, but it also gave the opportunity for Margaret to remain close to me. I had no intention of losing her.

  The meeting was sparsely attended, barely thirty people, and most of those were older women, all dressed in the obligatory mourning black.

  But we sat, and we listened, and afterwards, drinking coffee, we talked about the next meeting. I made a note, and promised to attend; tomorrow morning, in the Baptist Church in the small hamlet of Winchester, just ten miles south-west.

  When we had concluded the meeting, and asked as many questions as we could without raising any suspicion as to our intent, we left, arriving at our digs in time for more coffee, and sandwiches supplied by our landlady, the first I’d seen of her since booking in.

  “I’ve never spoken to a real detective before,” Missus Ramsay said, her thin husband lingering close, wringing his hands. There seemed little to be gained in keeping our false identities at our chosen base. “Are you on someone’s trail?”

  “A beast by all resorts,” I said, Margaret nodded. “He preys on newlyweds, and kills the poor new wife.”

  My sister was the last victim in Illinois,” Margaret said. “Just north of Springfield,”

  Missus Ramsay’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my, Stanley, aren’t you glad we’ve been married for twenty years.”

  The disconsolate look that poor Stanley gave his wife did not reflect her statement, and he shuffled away without comment.

  It did not take much time to change the subject from the butterfly mind of the landlady, and again, I sat back in my present female company, and gave thanks. From a world of men, I had suddenly attracted three women into my close circle. Margaret posed the lightweight of the group, yet she held her own in the ‘seedier’ aspects that we discussed. Emily seemed more man than woman at times, and poor Anna back in Chicago had proven herself as essential in both my life and Pinkertons.

  I came to the firm conclusion that I hated vacuous women.

  Then, just as the smell of dinner roast began to waft through from the kitchen, Francis and Emily arrived.

  Trolling in Jacksonville

  Francis Smalling, Jacksonville, Morgan County, Illinois

  April 3rd, 1867

  Emily and I first found the names and addresses of the churches in town. Missus Ramsay proved very proficient at supplying us with those details. Then we set off to try and rouse the ministers.

  Father William, at St Mary’s of the Cross gave us the addresses of three newlywed couples, but none in the last month. He also said that since all his newlyweds were actually in town, he’d check on them himself.

  The Baptist church gave us three names too, two of which were out in the country, and beyond his attendance in the next few days.

  And the Methodist church, obviously the more popular in town, had five couples who had tied the knot recently.

  We chose the ones in town first, and started our rounds.

  None had any dealings with abolitionists, none had seen any traveling players, and none had heard any southern accents.

  I’m not saying I thought the work below us, but after that first day, I felt bored enough to get back on my horse and leave the investigation altogether. Compared to the fun we’d had in the Harvard laboratory over the winter, this grunt-work just seemed worthless. The only thing that kept my head in the game was Emily and her seemingly endless optimism. We joined Margaret and Chapman for dinner, gave them all the names we’d gathered, and divided them into two lists for tomorrow. Since Margaret and Chapman were already going south to Winchester, they took the southern addresses, we got the northern ones.

  At bedtime, Margaret shared a room with Emily, and I was left on my own for the first time in quite a while. I looked through the considerable mail I’d picked up in Springfield, and instantly focused on an article in the British Scientific magazine.

  Two articles on the same subject had been pushed together.

  Two major scientists, one in England and one in Italy, were discussing the ideas of sending human speech down a telegraph cable. The whole concept enthralled me, and I read for a while before I fell asleep. I awoke to the door being knocked, rays of sunlight splashing over my bed; I hadn’t even drawn the curtains the night before. Of course, the concept of a talking telegraph proved to be our conversation for most of the day as we rode our route.

  The Andersen ranch looked similar in size to our farm, and we were met by a young Sarah Andersen at the porch of their house.

  “I’m Francis Smalling of Pinkerton Detective Agency,” I shook her hand. “Is your husband around?”

  “Eh, yes, we do some lumber work,” her lilting Swedish accent cut through her words like a children’s song. “Rudy’s in the barn.” Her husband’s name came out as ‘Roodee’.

  When we had been introduced to ‘Roodee’, and we’d explained our mission, Sarah looked perturbed. “We attend the abolitionists’ meetings.” She looked sideways at Rudy, obviously also Scandinavian, blond hair creeping across his face in a sparse, feathery beard. “We are against the hard drink.”

  “We’re looking for a tallish man, quite thin.” I said. “He may have a southern accent, but that part might just be a thing he does for show, on the night, so to speak.”

  Both Sarah and Rudy shook their heads, but did not look convinced. “Sometimes there are a lot of people at the meetings.”

  “Well, we’re staying at Missus Ramsay’s Hotel in town,” Emily said, patting Sarah’s hand. “So if you think of anything, come see us. You might help bring this despicable character to justice.”

  The jarring of actually meeting a prospective client of Johnny Reb, hit me hard as we rode away, and I spent a lot of the next part in some silence.

  Th
e next couple on our list had a room in a very large farmhouse. As we asked for the couple, Patty and Michael Kline, we were approached by no less than three large brothers, all armed, all asking our business. We spoke to the couple with the brothers remaining present, but they held no associations we recognized, and we rode away considering that particular target a dead end.

  “He’d be risking his life in there,” Emily said.

  “But he chose Rebekah, and I was in the same bedroom.” I said, and I watched her expression change. “And the bunkhouse with our farmhands lay only a few yards away.”

  Emily looked in deep thought. “But he does tie up a witness every time. In your sister’s case, there were two.” She said. “Surely that makes his job more difficult. It doesn’t seem he’s put off by a crowded situation.”

  “He drugged Mamma and Marsha too,” I added. “I mean, there was a fair bit of planning and preparation went into his short period of glory.”

  “So he’s not scared by the big crowd.” She said, then fell silent for a while. “Maybe he likes the risk?”

  “Likes risk?” I didn’t like the way she was taking the conversation.

  “Yes,” she gave him a hard stare. “Perhaps it’s the risk of capture that makes him do it. He’s looking for some kind of a thrill.”

  “The war,” I said, and I knew instantly by her look that I’d not made my point. “People got scared in the war. If he’s come home from the war, maybe he misses the rush of excitement. Maybe he misses the intense range of emotions he felt back then.”

  “So we swing from the actor, back to a real soldier.” Emily stated.

  “Maybe,”

  We met Chapman and Margaret back in Jacksonville, compared notes, and carried on for the next four days, doing the very same.

  The routine wasn’t quite as boring as the first day, but it soon slipped into hours of tedium, bordering on dull monotony.

  Then a rider tore into town early the next morning, and he hammered on the hotel door waking everyone.

  “The Andersen place!” I heard the muffled voice shout as he banged his fist on the outer door. “Rouse the detectives!” I dressed in seconds, then ran down the gantry towards the center of the hotel.

  Below me, Missus Ramsay stood, a blanket pulled round her neck, trailing on the floor. “What do I do?” she looked up at me in panic.

  “Let him in!” I roared, taking the downwards steps in twos, easily beating her to the door. I quickly slide the large bolt aside, which mollified the cries of the man outside. As I opened the door, he almost fell in. “What’s happened?” I grabbed his shoulders, lifting his face to me.

  “The Andersen place,” he panted. “I am here to tell you, he has struck again.”

  “Sit down,” I turned to Missus Ramsay. “Get this man water. Has the sheriff been called?”

  He shook his head, still severely out of breath. “No, Rudy said to come straight here, and that’s what I did.”

  At last, I caught the accent. Blond hair. “Are you related?”

  He nodded. “I am Rudy’s brother, Jorgen, we work the farm together.” Considering the news he brought, he looked remarkably calm.

  Chapman ran along the high gantry, then down the stairs. I looked up. “He’s Jorgen Andersen, from the Andersen farm up north. We visited a couple of days ago.”

  “Four days ago.” Emily corrected from above. She had dressed quickly, in her riding jodhpurs and tight waistcoat. “You two go saddle the horses, I’ll deal with Jorgen.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “A drink would be nice.”

  Her tone sounded very matter-of-fact, and I could find no reason not to hurry. I nodded to him, then we quickly slipped away to the stables.

  I think we were on our horses and riding out of town within fifteen minutes of being roused from bed. Despite our knowledge of the route, Jorgen led the way, his pace easily to duplicate, his horse’s flanks and shoulders were already sweated, and I doubted he’d get faster from him.

  “We’ll get a clean crime scene,” I grinned at Emily as we rode.

  “We should have told the sheriff, though,” she grinned.

  “No need for the sheriff!” Jorgen leant back on his saddle slightly.

  “But murders must be reported.” I whipped back.

  “There is no murder,” Jorgen looked at us, a puzzled look on his perspiring face.

  “But Sarah?”

  “Rudy beat him off,” his face could not hold back the pride in his brother. “Sarah is a bit shaken up, but she is alive.”

  I rode for a moment, smiling like a Cheshire cat. “You know what this means, Emily?”

  She shook her head. I turned to Chapman. “Do you know what this means, Paul? It means that we saved a life. All this canvassing has not been in vain.”

  We found Rudy and Sarah Andersen sitting on their porch step. As we dismounted, both stood, Sarah looking no worse for her ordeal.

  Although I felt eager to begin questioning, I waited for Chapman to begin.

  “What happened?” he said to the pair. “Tell me everything.”

  “We were attacked last night,” Rudy began, Sarah slid her hands onto his arms and watched him closely. “By some method a man got into our house and drugged us all.”

  “You are okay, ma’am?” he reached to touch her arm, and she flinched alarmingly.

  “He did not harm me.”

  I felt that in her simple statement, she was hiding a considerable amount.

  “What do you remember, Mister Andersen?” Paul continued.

  “I woke up tied to a chair.” He began, and I nodded at the pattern. I heard Margaret gasp at his words. “The man had tied Sarah to the bed.”

  His wife let his arm go, and turned back into the house. “I’ll make some coffee.”

  I nudged Emily. “Can you go with her, make sure she doesn’t go into the bedroom, we want the crime scene untouched.”

  “Of course.”

  Margaret stayed to listen to Rudy. “He was talking, babbling, making all sorts of rude suggestions. Then he touched her.” He stopped, his eyes tearing. “I could not stand it. I rocked the chair back and forth, and that made him laugh. Then I jumped up and down; the chair was never much good anyway. Under my weight, it shattered, and I fell onto the ground. I grabbed two of the broken chair legs, and went at him. He was not a good fighter, even though he had a sword, he never really used it, except to shield himself at times. I beat him across the head, and he ran. Sarah was screaming; I could not leave her. After I had chased him outside into the dark, I let him go. I had to attend to my wife.”

  I couldn’t help but marvel at both his bravery, and his stoicism. He’d taken the initiative, where I’d just sat and stared.

  “Would you recognize the man again?” Chapman asked.

  To my surprise Rudy smiled. “I think everyone would know him again. On one of my hits, I hit his face, and slashed him from eye to cheek.”

  Chapman shook Rudy’s hand, smiling. “You’re both brave and fortunate, Mister Andersen, you’re the only victim of Johnny Reb to still have a wife at the end of his performance.” He indicated the door. “Can we go inside and take a look at the crime scene? We need to see if he left anything behind, or if he left any clues.”

  “Oh he left behind his false moustache!” Rudy grinned, fishing in his trouser pocket.

  I cringed as he pulled forth shreds of ginger hairs. The thing had been torn almost to pieces. But we had one more clue to this man’s identity, and the list was stacking up. I held out my hand, and he placed the shreds of the torn actor’s prop onto my palm.

  One glance under my improvised microscope told me the hairs were indeed human, the follicles still attached in places.

  Paul Chapman, Hotel, Jacksonville, Morgan County, Illinois

  April 9th, 1867

  I rode in silence, happy to have such a new crime scene to examine, yet reticent to see another bloody corpse. Then, when Jorgen announced that Sarah was alive, my heart seemed
to beat out of my chest, and I rode with a great grin on my face, suddenly enjoying the crisp air on my face.

  Once at the farm, I listened to Rudy’s tale, then ventured inside the farmhouse. I stood at the door to the bedroom, my hands on either side, barring any other entry. With intimate care I took in the scene.

  Standing at the doorway, the bedroom looked small and square in shape, a large bed almost filling the room. Pieces of rope lay both on the crumpled pillow, and on the wooden floor near the foot. The remains of a wooden chair lay in pieces; again lengths of rope lay on the ground. Near the single window, a dresser stood, its top cleared of trappings, some shards of pottery lay on the floor near the window and under the bed.

  A struggle had definitely taken place. I walked into the room, taking care not to disturb anything on the floor. I heard steps behind me. “Can you see anything out of place, Francis?”

  “Not so far,”

  I walked past the bed, and saw a piece of dirt, yellow, almost orange in color. I pointed downwards. “Soil on the floor, possibly clay,”

  “There’s no clay on this farm.” Rudy said, standing at the doorway, leaning over Margaret, who looked quite ashen-faced. “Not a bit of it.”

  I smiled inwardly. We’d taken another step to getting our man. Francis flipped his lenses down to his eye, and fished out his magnifying glass. “Clay soil,” he said. Yellow clay,”

  “Is the rope yours?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” I held it up for him to see.” I don’t think so.”

  “Go and check for me, will you. This might be important.”

  I hoped his rope search would provide us with another piece of information, but at least we got some undisturbed time to examine the room. If I thought we were going to cram our pockets full of clues, I got quickly disappointed. The room gave up no more secrets.

  Rudy’s return confirmed that the rope had been brought to the crime scene by Johnny Reb himself, but Rudy’s subsequent descriptions added no more to our gathering picture of our man.