Clockwork Killer (Steampunk Detectives: Book 1)

by Hall, Ian

  It seemed that time slowed to a snail’s pace. I slowly lifted the pistol and watched Whiteman’s look of pleasure shift to a bemused, questioning expression.

  As soon as the sights passed clear of Margaret’s legs, I squeezed the trigger.

  BAM!

  To my partial surprise, the gun went off, the retort deafening in the enclosed room. But then I knew it would have, I’d hid it there, and I’d loaded it, and I’d just pulled the trigger.

  It recoiled in my hand, a huge cloud of smoke billowing between us. I looked up at Whiteman’s face, stumbling back from the bed with his right hand still holding his pecker. He held his left to a now growing stain on his shirt. He eyed it curiously as I sighted along the barrel and fired a second round into his chest. I knew where his heart was, I’d studied anatomy.

  This time he reeled further, careering against the wall which already showed splashes of considerable blood splatter.

  I fired a third, although I needn’t have bothered. Whiteman had already started to collapse against the wall, turning his body away from me, his eyes dull and unfocused. My third took him close to his shirt pocket, twisting him further.

  With a feeling of complete satisfaction, I watched him fall into a crumpled heap on the wooden floor.

  The Confederate Falls

  Francis Smalling, Smalling Apple Farm, Sangamon County

  June 1st, 1867

  Early the next morning I sent David Grantham into Springfield to deliver the news to the sheriff, and send a telegram to Pinkertons. There seemed no way to leave the girls to do so personally.

  As I waited on the law’s arrival, I recalled the end of poor Frederick Whiteman.

  After he’d fallen to the ground, his body bleeding and still, I pulled two blankets from my bed; the one not used, and draped them over the naked forms of the quivering girls. “I’m going for a knife.” I remember saying. “I’ll soon cut you lose.”

  I thought about putting one over Whiteman too, then shook my head at the wasted effort.

  The kitchen had never looked so dark, but somehow my shaking hands found the correct drawer.

  I re-entered the bedroom with a sharp kitchen knife, and stood in indecision; which girl deserved to be untied first? I looked first at Margaret’s face, her eyes closed, her lips still trembling, then at my Emily whose sharp eyes met my gaze. Thankfully she nodded to the bed, making my choice for me.

  “Shh, Margaret, dearest,” I whispered to her as I approached. “He’s gone now. He’d dead.” I followed her gaze to Whiteman’s body. Carefully, I pulled the blanket to one side, protecting as much of my sister’s modesty as I could, and with cautious strokes of the knife cut her gradually loose. I left her clutching the blanket to her body, to attend to my fiancé, and soon they both were free.

  “Francis!” Emily said, pointing to Margaret. I spun round, expecting to see Whiteman, risen and threatening, but his body still lay where he’d fallen.

  Sister Margaret, however, had gotten out of the bed, and somehow got a hold of my gun. I couldn’t even remember where I’d put it. Margaret held it in her shaking hand as if it were the heaviest thing in the universe, the barrel pointing at the floor. “What are you going to do?” I asked as I walked round the foot of the bed towards her, determined to dive at her if she raised it to herself intending harm.

  But I needn’t have bothered. She just moved the aim slightly, centered the sights on Whiteman’s chest, and pulled the trigger three times, firing into his corpse. When the gun no longer fired, she continually clicked an empty chamber until I carefully took the smoking pistol from her hand.

  I felt Emily’s hand on my shoulder. “I’ll get her dressed.” She said softly. “Go check on Marsha and the farm hands; if they were unharmed, they should have been here by now.”

  I nodded, quietly amazed at her matter-of-factness. I found my trousers in a pile of clothes in the corner of the room, and once I’d pulled them on, I quickly re-loaded my Smith and Wesson from the bullets on my belt. Somehow just the act of pushing those cartridges into the chambered holes made me feel so much better. With more confidence than I felt, I grabbed one of the lamps, and walked out into the oppressive darkness.

  Marsha lay asleep, the smell of ether heavy in the room. As I swung the lamp towards the smell, I saw three familiar jars on her dresser, all uncorked; the bastard had used my own supplies against me. I retraced my steps back into the kitchen and opened the door to the yard.

  Across in the bunkhouse David and the other two hands slept soundly, and when I bent low over David’s face, I smelled the odor of chloroform. Against all my irrational reasoning, I actually congratulated Whiteman’s skills; he had been quite thorough. Even in the tumult of putting seven people under, his doses had all been accurate; all slept soundly; he hadn’t lost a patient.

  I decided to let the men to wake naturally, and crossed back to the house.

  I lit the stove, and soon had water heating up. In the absence of something stronger, I needed coffee, then thinking of the hands again, re-crossed the yard with dogged determination.

  Under David’s bed I found a bottle of rough bourbon, which I immediately took a good tug from. The harsh alcohol burned my throat, but the pain felt good as I tried to block the surge of mixed emotions which threatened to surface within me.

  Taking the bottle back to the house, and meeting the girls in the kitchen, I encouraged both to drink of the cloudy liquid. “It will do you good,” I said with little confidence. Both coughed on their first swig, yet both returned to the bottle for a second.

  After a time, Emily encouraged Margaret to her newly built bedroom, lying with her and holding her in a tight embrace until she eventually fell asleep.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, the half empty bottle in front of me, I looked up at her figure in the doorway. “Is it over?” I asked, somehow not convinced of the reality of the corpse in the other bedroom.

  Emily nodded, then pulled a chair close to mine, dragging my hands from the bottle and small glass I’d been using. For many minutes, she just sat close, our fingers entwined, our thoughts somehow together and yet probably so far apart. “I think it’s over, Francis.” A long moment of silence fell over the kitchen, the crackling stove now supporting an enameled pot of boiling coffee. “We did it. You did it. You beat him.”

  Tears began to tumble down my cheeks, mirrored in my fiancé, and we embraced again, our sobbing rhythm soon in unison.

  The next day, when we had finally gotten rid of both the body and the sheriff’s deputies, Margaret stood outside the house, looking back. “I don’t want to set foot inside it again.”

  I turned to her, not exactly surprised. “You want to sell the farm?” I asked, taking her statement one stage further.

  “Oh, no!” she seemed quite shocked at the idea. “I actually like growing apples.” She began. “There’s something very calming about it all. It never seems to rush, just takes its own sweet time.”

  I hugged her sideways on, and laughed; amazed the sound could be made so soon after the dark deed. “Maybe just re-build the farmhouse?”

  “What a great idea!” she responded immediately. She turned and looked at my laboratory, slightly up the rise. “I’ve always wanted to live in the summer house!”

  I felt irked, and yet somewhat happy that she would have such positive thoughts. Compared to the expansive laboratories at Harvard, the summer house seemed woefully undersized. “That would be okay.” I found myself saying, although I have no idea where the words came from. “I could put my experiments into the barn somewhere.”

  And of course, with the sudden need of a bedroom that night, Emily and I began the transfer that day. After one of my trips taking a bell jar to the barn, I found Emily standing in front of a wall in the summer house, looking at my drawings. “I never noticed these before.” She said.

  “Ah,” I stood beside her, my elbow nudging hers. “The fertile mind of Francis Smalling is introduced to the world.”

  �
��What’s this one?” she asked, pointing to a rather elaborate drawing of an underwater craft.

  “My mutation of the Monitor,” I said, feeling proud of my detailed riveting. “If it could survive afloat on the surface, surely it could submerge too, thus making it impervious to modern attack.”

  “If it’s top seals were adequate.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Quite impressive,” Emily’s gaze shifted. “This one looks like a corkscrew.”

  “Ah, yes, my proposition that an object could pass through water faster if it were spinning.” I almost blushed. “I haven’t had the chance to fully experiment there.”

  “But surely the people inside would get dizzy?”

  “Ah, that is where my reasoning goes in two different directions. One, that somehow I could get the outside shell of the craft to spin, leaving the internal section stationary. My second theory has a series of spiral fins round the craft; just the act of passing through the water would create a spiral effect on the water, thus decreasing water friction.”

  Emily had stopped looking at the drawings, and had been looking into my eyes. It made me terribly dizzy. “I do love what goes on inside your head, Francis Smalling.” She leant over to kiss me. “And I’m so glad the detective dalliance has been eradicated.”

  “Me too,” I nodded, leaning in for another delight. “I didn’t really understand what pressures we’d been working under; my head feels giddy with release of the problem.”

  In a day, with the help of the farm hands, we transferred my equipment to the barn, and Margaret’s bedroom into the summer house. That evening, sitting round the kitchen table, now also in the summer house, we made plans and drawings of a new house, having the existing summerhouse as the front, and rooms to each side and behind.

  Margaret looked excited, all trace of the past evening’s trauma gone from her expression at least. “Considering David built the extension onto the house for my bedroom, we’ll have the new house up in no time.”

  Emily seemed to have no such need to avoid the house, so we slept in our bedroom, our hands touching between the beds.

  Paul Chapman, Pinkerton National Detective Agency, Chicago, Illinois

  June 1st 1867

  When Anna brought the latest telegram to me, I knew it held something important; she could not hide her excitement.

  Taking a deep breath, I unfolded the paper.

  To Paul Chapman, Pinkerton Detective Agency, Chicago

  Frederick Whiteman is dead. He attacked us last night, we sustained no injuries.

  Repeat. Frederick Whiteman is dead.

  Francis Smalling.

  I felt a huge weight lifting off my shoulders, and breathed a long sigh of relief. “It’s over, Anna. We got him.”

  I knew that Pinkerton kept a bottle of Scottish whisky in one of his drawers, and found it exactly where we’d tidied it to. Using the small glasses that Allan used for such occasions, I poured two small shots for Anna and I.

  “Cheers!” I said, raising the glass and downing the smooth liquid in one swallow. I leant back in my chair and closed my eyes, glad to be rid of such an obnoxious and long-running case. My thoughts went immediately to the Smallings, and determined immediately to ride to visit.

  My mind made up, I arranged a horse within the hour, and had Anna telegram the sheriff in Springfield that I wanted to physically see the body before it was interred. I rode harder than I had done on most of my cases, riding late into the evening before catching a few hours sleep under a tree.

  Two days later, having ridden two hundred miles, I hitched at the sheriff’s office.

  “He’s in Hector Tandy’s place,” he rose from his seemingly permanent resting place, and quickly crossed the room. “Funeral Director in town.”

  “I see.”

  “Old Hec’ didn’t take kindly to being ordered around, but he put Whiteman on ice, so to speak.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  I actually didn’t take the sheriff at his word, but remarkably, Frederick Whiteman lay upon a huge slab of ice, covered in a dirty tan colored sheet.

  “You owe me five bucks for the ice.” Hec said, as he whipped the corner of the sheet from Whiteman’s face.

  “I’ll make sure you get compensated.” I said, leaning over the wrinkled body. From my fleeting sight of him at Buxton House, I’m not certain I could have given a positive identification, but the guy was bald, and looked the right height. He’d been stripped and cleaned, so I pulled the sheet further off his torso. “Wow.” I said, raising my eyebrows. Six neat holes in his chest gave the method of his death.

  “Young Smalling did three of those, so David Grantham said; he’s the foreman of the farm.” The sheriff said. “Seems young Margaret did the other three, post mortem.”

  I frowned. I could only imagine what they’d gone through that night.

  I paid Tandy for the ice, and gave him another five to get a photograph done of the corpse. I wanted to have hard evidence for our new record system. Then I made retreating goodbyes, and set off for a bath, a good night’s sleep, a bottle of bourbon, and a good meal.

  And I didn’t care what order they came in.

  I arrived at the Smalling farm early the next day to see a fair amount of activity around the summer house on the slope of the hill away from the main farm. Three men worked on a framework, extending it on both sides.

  “Paul!”

  I turned to see Francis, grinning from ear to ear, walking from the porch of the farmhouse.

  “Hey, young man, it seems you’ve been busy.”

  We shook hands warmly. “You got my telegram?”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here.” I suddenly felt so unsure of how to handle my next question. “What happened?” I took the blunt approach.

  “Long story.” He rubbed his chin, and over his shoulder I seen Emily Hettinger exit the farmhouse. “We got him, though. Dead to rights, hand on his pecker, sword lying over Margaret’s throat.” I nodded. So that’s how it went down. “I took three shots, Paul. Stung his chest three times.”

  “I know,” I said, nodding again, feeling the excitement in his words. “I saw the body yesterday.”

  “Oh,” he turned pensive. “I thought he’d been buried already.”

  I shook my head. “My orders. I wanted to witness him personally, and I wanted photographs.”

  So, as we walked the farm, Francis and Emily told me most of their evening’s adventure. I examined their rope-cutting chair, and marveled at its ingenuity. I even got tied up, and rocked myself free.

  “That’s amazing!” I said as the rope fell away in short lengths.

  “It was Emily’s idea.” Francis said with considerable pride, and his girl beamed with embarrassment. “We got three made, and taped a pistol under each. All I had to do was wait until he let go the sword.”

  These kids had not only engineered the method of capture, they’d carried it out with absolute success. The man lay on a slab of ice because of their scientific approach to the whole problem. I smiled at their pride, and wondered what the future would bring.

  “Oh, and we’re engaged!” Emily beamed.

  I looked from her to Francis. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you about that.”

  “I telegraphed uncle, and he gave his blessing.” She grabbed Francis’s hands, and clasped them together. “Well, since he allowed me the freedom to travel a thousand miles away, he couldn’t really complain. But we are going back to Cambridge for the ceremony.”

  I added the usual niceties, then asked my biggest question. “And will you continue to do detective work?”

  He looked suddenly chagrined. “Ah, I made a promise.” He nodded to Emily. “We’ll be doing work at Harvard for a while, then maybe travel.”

  “It seems that you’ve thought it all through.” I said, meaning every word. I couldn’t help but see a bright future for them. “What about Margaret? How’s she taking it all?”

  Francis swallowed. “She seems quite enam
ored by our foreman, David Grantham, so we’re not leaving her alone, so to speak. I expect they’ll also marry soon.”

  He hadn’t directly answered the question I’d asked, but I let it slip. “Well, I wish you both the very best.”

  Leaving Sangamon County

  Francis Smalling, Smalling Apple Farm, Sangamon County

  June 1st, 1867

  As I twisted in my saddle, and looked back along the avenue of trees, my sister looked far better than I’d seen her in years; standing arm in arm with David Grantham, a huge grin on each of their faces.

  “At least they’ll get some privacy now.” Emily said, her gloved hand covering her grinning mouth.

  “Privacy?” I asked. “Privacy for what?”

  “Francis, you know damn well what for!”

  I know I reddened, I could feel the heat under my collar. “Emily Bradford Hettinger!” I laughed and made to punch her shoulder, but she rode just out of reach. “You should wash your mouth out with soap!”

  “I’d like to meet the man who thought he could do that!” she spurred her horse into a trot, and took away from me.

  I looked at her, her hat with her tinted goggles cocked to one side, and remembered her slight waist billowing into thighs of milky white. I had seen her naked, and to be honest I was glad to be marrying her, as the images of her naked pale flesh still burnt clear in my mind. We’d never spoken of it, but I’d seen her glances at me, at my groin, and wondered what she had been thinking, yet felt far too afraid to ask.

  Before I could let these thoughts linger, I spurred my own mount forward, soon catching up.

  In Springfield, I paid a visit to the bank, drawing some money from the farm account, and at the post office, gave notice that all my mail be re-directed to Harvard, directly to Professor Ernest Wattles.

  With my business taken care of, we set off again, arriving in Mattoon near nightfall, and were able to get a room at the best hotel before setting off the next day to Cambridge. With Emily back into a skirt, I found I missed the form-fitting jodhpurs she rode in, yet held illicit longings for the days when we’d both wrestle in bed naked together.