Clockwork Killer (Steampunk Detectives: Book 1)

by Hall, Ian

  I could feel my Adam’s apple move as I considered my next action. “Well what?” I tried, but it only seemed to fuel the fire.

  “Are you with me?” she said between pursed lips. “Or with him? Chapman?” she spat the last word, actual spittle crossed towards me in the dusty stable.

  I internally shook my head, then crossed to my horse, untied its reins, and mounted, securing my feet in the stirrups. “It’s you and me, Emily.” I said stoically. “It always will be.”

  The smile that filled her face would be one I’d remember for a lifetime. She pulled the head of her horse towards the open door, and we rode outside like a two-man army. “Where exactly are we going?” I asked, knowing the answer before she delivered it.

  “We’re going to enroll in acting school.” She shouted over her shoulder as I caught up.

  “We?” I asked, knowing that Whiteman already knew me.

  “Well, I am,” she grinned, and I knew that a plan had already begun in her pretty head. “We’ll get the lie of the land, then we’ll report back.”

  “It all sounds good to me.” I replied. I felt happy that we weren’t going in guns blazing, and that once we’d scouted the premises, we’d bring our findings back to Pinkertons. “No heroics.” I said firmly.

  “None of that stuff, I promise.”

  “How far do you think it is to Rockford?”

  “I took a quick look at Chapman’s map.” She said, a sly grin passing over her lips. “It can’t be more than seventy miles.”

  “But we won’t make it today.”

  “No, we’ll spend the night in Elgin.”

  Damned if she even had gotten that part worked out.

  On the second day out from Chicago, it began to rain, draining our spirits and our intended pace. It was two very bedraggled teenagers who rode into a muddy Rockford. In the main street, a large hotel beckoned, and we headed directly for it. Once inside the staff fussed round us, and although we’d worn our supposedly weatherproof capes, once we’d signed in, we still had to strip to our underclothes in the room to get the rest of our stuff dried at the open fronted stove.

  “Don’t you worry, Missus Smalling,” the manager’s assistant assured Emily. “We’ll get your things dried in time for dinner.” They soon brought up a pile of dry firewood for the stove, then closed the room door, leaving us alone.

  I looked at Emily, who looked as cold as I felt. “Let’s get into the bed.” I said, my teeth beginning to chitter.

  To my delight she nodded and we dived under the covers.

  After a brief cuddle to encourage warmth, we settled to our individual pillows, and passed some of the newest journals between us. As our clothes dried, sending trails of steam into the low rafters, we passed comment over new discoveries, brilliant new theories, and some slightly crackpot ones.

  Dinner proved quite a busy event, with some of the inhabitants of the town joining us, including the local sheriff. “This is all very cloak and dagger; I love it.” Emily said under her breath, her face illuminated from within, excitement trying to burst from every pore.

  I nodded in silent agreement.

  When the conversation between tables came round to us, Emily stole the show. “We’re up from Chicago to look at an acting school we’ve heard of; part of the Northwestern University.”

  “Oh that would be over at Belvidere. Buxton House.” The sheriff answered immediately. “Back the way you came. You probably passed by it on the way here.”

  Emily laughed. “Oh, it was raining so hard, we could have passed a herd of elephants, and not noticed.”

  “It’s off the Belvedere main street a fair bit,” he continued. “If you turn north at the saddlers, you’ll get to it eventually; big house on the rise.”

  I nodded. “Thank you sheriff, acting has been my wife’s passion for some time.”

  “Oh the Colonel will take care of you; he’s kept that place running for years, despite the lack of funds. I think it was the recent tie-in with the University that saved them from closing down.” He laughed at his own joke, and we all shared.

  “So the school is run by this ‘Colonel’, sheriff?” Emily asked.

  “Colonel Ward,” the sheriff nodded. “He and his wife Harriet run the place.”

  I almost gasped when he mentioned the name. “Did he fight in the war?” I asked, hoping for a hit there.

  “No, no,” he shook his head. “Colonel Ward is far too old for that. He’s almost a veteran of the war of independence!” And we all laughed again.

  Back in our room after dinner I wrote all the details down. “At least if we get censured by Pinkertons, we’ll be able to give them some information.” I said.

  Emily looked over my shoulder as I wrote, correcting details. I almost felt as if we were back in the laboratory. “There will be no ‘if’, Francis. Chapman will take us to task, regardless of what we find.”

  I nodded somberly, knowing the truth in her words.

  The next day loomed as wet as the day we’d arrived, and we stayed indoors, frustrated at our inability to travel. We had determined that we would first scout the building, spying out the lie of the land, then ride to the main building, after which I would remain outside, holding the horses, and Emily would enquire after actual course details, being the prospective client. It seemed a good plan, but there seemed little point in scouting in the rain, visibility being far shorter.

  We read, and played cards in our bedroom, whiling our day away.

  The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and we rode early from Rockford, heading into the rising orb of light, dipping my hat low over my eyes to shade them.

  Turning north at the saddlers, as instructed, we rode towards Buxton House.

  As we neared the house, I turned to Emily. “There are just two buildings.” I said. “The house and a large barn. It hardly seems worth scouting round. I’d expected more. It’s hardly what I would consider a school.”

  The ground around Buxton House had a few scattered trees, but little else. Concealing the approach of a lot of men would be difficult.

  “I agree,” Emily replied. I don’t think that any scouting would add to the information Chapman needs.”

  The front of the two storied house rose from tended lawns, its painted walls looking worse the wear from weathering. But it did look far grander than most of the houses I’d seen in the countryside, almost a southern design, with a full round porch on both the ground floor, and the one above.

  We dismounted in front of the whitewashed fence, yards from the house, and as intended, I held Emily’s horse, while she went up the path to the stairs. As she neared the porch, she was met by a smiling grey-haired woman, who embraced her as soon as they came level.

  I couldn’t hear the conversation, but when lemonade got called for, I grinned and leant against my horse, looking around, taking in as much detail as I could. I intended to draw such a detailed map that Chapman would forgive our little adventure off reservation, so to speak.

  About half an hour into their conversation, looking over my saddle I noticed a movement near the barn, and took a sharp breath. From the darkness inside, Frederick Whiteman emerged into the sunlight and mopped his brow. He wore jeans and checked shirt, but his bald head shone in the direct sun, giving me no doubt of his identity.

  My mind flew back a year to that tragic night, and although I wished I could just walk down the slight slope and bludgeon him to death, I shook with such nervousness that I doubted I could accomplish such an action successfully. The killer of my sister stood no further than fifty yards from me. I fought to bring my breathing under control.

  He pulled a large bench into the yard, followed by large paint-pots, and began to stir them methodically.

  I heard the women’s voices get louder and turned to see then descending the steps towards me. The old lady came close. “Mister Hettinger, let me assure you that your wife would be very happy here for a term.”

  “Thank you ma’am,” I said, shaking her t
hin wrinkled hand. I glanced back at Whiteman, who had dragged a large frame to lean against the table. It looked like a Roman column, yet waved in the slight breeze. “Would my wife be involved with such work?”

  “Oh, no,” the lady assure me. “She would take acting classes only.” She shaded her eyes against the sun and followed my gaze towards the barn. “Freddy there comes to us every spring, and works on the sets and props for our coming year. He does a bit of building maintenance too; the house isn’t what it used to be.” She grinned warmly. “But then none of us are; we’re all getting old.”

  “Does he do any acting?” I asked, looking for information, but hoping that she wouldn’t call him over.

  But I needn’t have bothered, when she looked over at Frederick Whiteman, her expression changed slightly. “No, he just fills in when we need a stand-in, or he does the one-line parts that our paying students don’t want.” She smiled limply towards the barn. “Not everyone has the skill to act.” Her voice had grown patronizing, and I suddenly seen Frederick despising her, resenting her condescending tones towards him, the hired help.

  We said our farewells, and with me keeping my head turned away from the barn, rode from the house. “It was him!” I said, once we’d gotten down the rode a hundred yards. “I saw the man who killed my sister.”

  “I thought as much.” Emily almost drooled. “Boy that was exciting.”

  We re-joined the road at Belvidere, and turned east, heading back to Chicago.

  Emily recounted her conversation with Missus Ward. “The school starts in May, and summer term lasts eight weeks.” She began. “Term fees are four hundred dollars, but that does include all meals and laundry charges.”

  I almost commented, but caught myself and let her continue.

  “Her husband is a retired Colonel from the South; Lexington, but considered himself far too old to even think of returning there for the war. Both the Wards teach the acting classes, with another two teachers attending from Chicago. Women are not actually allowed in the University proper, but the Dean has made an exception in Buxton House, due to the role of the actress.” Emily glanced at me, her face flushed with pride, her eyes shining and wide open. “We did it, Francis. We scouted where Chapman could not. We got the information he needed. He can’t complain about our results. Not now.”

  I turned away to hide my thoughts, thinking how Chapman would react to the news of our little sojourn into the country. “He’ll be mad.” I said, a moment later. “Since we did it against his strict instructions; against his orders.”

  Emily laughed. “What’s he going to do?” she asked. “Send you to Harvard for a year?”

  “He could fire me, and that would cut off my wages.”

  “Francis, my uncle would hire you in a second.” She grinned. “We could work in Harvard until we become old and famous!”

  As we rode, I did see the end of this investigation looming before me; the closure of this very traumatic part of my life.

  I just didn’t know what I would do after it was all over.

  Paul Chapman, Pinkerton Building, Chicago, Illinois

  April 26th 1867

  Francis and Emily rode into the stables like they’d both stole the cheese from the mousetrap, and felt both pleased and guilty about it.

  “Upstairs, if you’d be so kind.” I said. I felt that I should barrack them for whatever they’d done, but felt hamstrung until they told me details of their crime. I didn’t quite know what to expect, but what I didn’t expect was a full presentation of Buxton House, its history, situation, and an actual confirmed sighting of our man

  So, of course, when they’d presented the details of the house and its surroundings, including a very detailed map, I couldn’t even feel angry enough to give them a slight ticking off. To their credit, they’d been very circumspect. They’d been cautious, and they’d been thorough. So thorough, in fact, that I made them repeat every word later that day to the assembled agents, now numbering ten including me.

  With the information fresh from the ‘kids’, we wasted no time and set off within the hour. With Elgin the object of our mid-point stop, we rode the horses hard and arrived in time to get our heads down to sleep for an early rise the next day.

  Francis and Emily took the lead, and despite them just having returned, didn’t look any the worse for the day’s hard ride.

  We rose well before dawn the next morning, and in the early dawn, we approached the house from the east. Once it stood in my sight, we halted behind trees, and I got a good look at our target; exactly as the ‘kids’ had described it. I assigned four men to circle round to the far west side, sitting patiently in the saddle until they’d done so. With instructions to advance towards the barn, I readied myself for the final push.

  “You and Miss Emily will wait here,” I said, hoping they would not raise a complaint.

  Smalling nodded somberly. “We’ll wait. I promise.” I looked at Emily, but could see no sign of her disobeying my instructions.

  With two outriders to north and south, I took the road at a gentle canter, myself and Spencer Roscoe. “Keep it casual, Spencer,” I reminded my partner. “We’re just two farmhands looking for work.”

  He gave a grin. “Yeah, we’re just sporting double holsters and rifles.”

  “Farmhands,” I repeated.

  When we’d gotten close to the House, I saw three of my men coming in from the west, walking slowly, homing in on the barn. As we entered the large yard between the barn and the house, I took my time drifting the horse near to the whitewashed hitching rail. Expecting some gunfire, I stayed in the saddle by the rail as long as I could.

  I could hear bees buzzing, and birds chirping in the trees, but as my men slipped inside the barn, all I wanted to hear was gunfire. One shot. Some indication that they’d found him. Those seconds seemed an hour long.

  Then one man stood at the large doorway, and gave me the thumbs down. Damn if Whiteman had either given us the slip, or he was in the main house.

  I dismounted slowly, and waited for Spencer to do the same. “Once in the house, whatever happens I’ll take the ground floor. If we get split up, you wait in the foyer, or the bottom of the stairs, whatever it happens to be.

  “I gotcha, boss,” he nodded, his eyes roaming all over the front of the house.

  With another eight men now surrounding the building, I felt confident of Whiteman’s imminent capture.

  As I walked up the slope to the house, the door opened, and an old man came out onto the porch, his boots clicking loudly. Long white hair swept back over his head, and deep blue eyes looked at me over a white beard and wavy moustache. He held a double barreled shotgun across his folded arms. “Morning gents,” he said, the door swinging closed behind him. “What can I do for you?”

  “Howdy, are you Colonel Ward?” I carried on walking as I spoke, keeping eye contact with the old-timer. “My name’s Paul Chapman…”

  The old man nodded, and levelled the gun at my belly. “That’s about as close as you’ gonna get right now.”

  I held my hands up, palms outward, and scuffed to a halt. “That’s fair.” I pointed back at the barn, and to either side. “I’m from the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in Chicago. Me and my men are hunting an outlaw called Frederick Whiteman.” I could see his brows drop nearer his eyes, and he frowned. “Now, we have reason to believe he’s in this area. Maybe even in this house.”

  “What’s he done?” the man’s tone had changed, he almost sounded sad, hurt by the allegations.

  “He’s murdered four young women.” I said, “And not in a nice way, if there ever was one.” I added.

  “Frederick Whiteman.” The Colonel said in a monotone.

  “Yes, sir,”

  I walked forward, and he pulled the point of his shotgun upwards, now pointing to the porch upstairs. He gave it a nudge. “He’s upstairs,” he whispered. “The wife is downstairs in the kitchen, we don’t want any trouble.”

  He backed away to the
door, turned the handle and slipped inside, holding the door open for us. We drew our pistols and closed on the doorway.

  The Colonel pointed to the straight staircase to our front. The individual wooden risers creaked as we climbed, but at the top, a corridor went east-west. I turned left, and indicated that Spencer go right. I counted five doors, gently I turned the first doorknob, brass, round.

  Nothing. A bare room, bed, nightstand and a chest of drawers.

  The second room proved to be the same, then from Spencer’s side of the house, two shots rang out, and I heard my man yell in pain. I ran past the staircase and found Spencer lying in the carpeted hallway, shot in the shoulder, blood spattered across the white wall. He writhed in pain, yet managed to keep silent, pointing into the open doorway.

  Taking a deep breath, I charged into the room, my finger light on my trigger. Nothing, the same bed, but disturbed this time, some clothing discarded near the dresser. I saw a confederate coat, its yellow piping shining in the bright sunlight. Then I noticed the open window. “The upper porch!” I cursed as I crossed and poked my head outside.

  Bam!

  Shards of wood splintered into my face as I ducked inside again. Getting my pistol quickly at the ready, I leant outside and fired along the porch, just in time to see a barefooted figure leap across the balcony, pistol in one hand, sword in the other, landing with a thump on the grass outside.

  Two more shots sounded across the yard, and I heard answering shouts from my agents.

  I slipped through the window and stood on the porch in seconds, running along to where he’d launched himself. Again, a shot landed near me, and I recoiled back to the wall of the house.

  When I chanced another look over the white painted rail, I saw him gallop away, firing a shot behind him at my horse.

  Damn it if he hadn’t stolen Spencer’s ride.

  I fired twice, but he had ridden directly away from me, and the retreating target proved too small for my Smith and Wesson.

  “Damn.” I cursed as I saw the others miss too.