by Hall, Ian
I shook my head at the new development. Somehow she’d gotten herself so worked up into the case, she’d copy-catted it after its closing. For some perverse reason she’d perpetuated the murders, perhaps unable to cope with the idea that the original perpetrator had been killed.
I walked saddened into the living room. Francis sat in a chair, bent forward, his head cradled by Emily’s hands. He seen me approach, and his head rose, his eyes seemingly searching into my very soul.
I tried for a moment to find the words, knowing that I’d just killed his sister. “I think we’ve worked it all out, Francis,” I paused, swallowing hard. “But there’s grave news for you.”
I fought for a moment, trying to find the correct words to use, then to my surprise, he gave a slight nod. “Margaret was the second killer.”
“Yes,” The word seemed so inadequate. “I’m afraid you’re right.”
“How?” his face looked at me, vainly searching for a quick and complete answer. Then he stopped, an idea obviously forming. I’d worked so long with the young man, I knew him well. “It’s all my fault,” he said, and began to shake his head. “I sent her too many letters, kept her far too well appraised with the case… then I let her join us in Jacksonville.”
“Francis, you can’t blame yourself here…”
He thrust himself upwards, almost knocking Emily over in the action. “If I hadn’t joined Pinkertons!” he raged at me, his words coming through angry snarling teeth. “If I hadn’t been so determined, so God-damned righteous!”
I’m not certain how I’d have dealt with him if he’d gotten any more belligerent, but I needn’t have worried. I’d just witnessed the final throes of his temper, and he crumbled into Emily’s arms, who quickly led him outside.
It was the last I’d see of Francis Smalling for some time.
The next day, I tidied loose ends in Decatur, then decided to ride back to Chicago, and maybe even do it the long way, just to clear my head. I sent Anna a telegram to inform her of my intentions, then set off for Springfield.
The Smalling ranch looked deserted, then a farm hand appeared, rifle butt at the waist.
“I’m looking for Francis?” I shouted, hoping he’d get the idea that I had friendly intentions.
“He’s not here,” the man said, the rifle still held, ready for use.
“Then the foreman?”
The man just shook his head. “He left weeks ago. Him and Miss Margaret had a big fall-out.”
“Fine,” I said, pulling the slow progress of my horse to a halt. “I’ll be on my way then.”
“Maybe best,”
So I rose away from the Smalling farm with a growing question in my mind that might never get explained away. Margaret had argued with her new beau, and he’d simply scarpered? Or had his end been more chilling? Perhaps we’d never know.
Changing direction, I rode directly north, making Buxton House in a leisurely four days; I’d not pressed the horse at all, and certainly nothing had risen in my mind to encourage me do so.
I had one question to be answered.
“Yes,” Colonel Ward at Buxton nodded at my enquiry. “A young lady bought all of Whiteman’s possessions. We needed the money, never thought a thing about it.”
I described Margaret Smalling, and the Colonel nodded. “That was her, sure enough.”
I rode to Chicago, with most of the pieces of the puzzle in place.
Poor Margaret Smalling had survived two performances of Frederick Whiteman’s killing spree, more than any other person.
She’d kept the sword on his second visit to her farm.
She’d been given precise details of the investigation in the letters from Smalling, and her involvement in the Jacksonville part.
Then she’d collected the costume and false hair from Buxton House.
Quite a complicated preparation for her spree.
Then she’d simply gone mad.
She’d thrown herself into Whiteman’s role, and done it until she’d gotten caught; obviously the violent end had also been part of her plan. She’d known that if she’d spaced out her killings like Whiteman’s, we’d have taken ages to catch up with her.
She’d wanted a quick end.
And I’d given it to her.
As I sat at Pinkerton’s old desk in Chicago, I felt great satisfaction in closing the book permanently on the Whiteman case. Then I shook my head and opened the next file.
Francis Smalling, Professor of Physics, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts
October 27th 1867
As I sit in my laboratory, with the students all gone, I wait for Emily to join me for our evening’s experiments.
We are not quite certain whether to take any of Captain Drobiaz’s various invitations, but one thing is for certain…
I’ll never set foot in Springfield, Illinois, ever again.
Thus ends the first volume of the Steampunk Detectives series.
I hope you enjoyed it.
You can find me at www.ianhallauthor.com
Other Books by Ian Hall
Connecticut Vampire (the continuing Series)
Vampires Don’t Cry (a multi-book series)
The Zombie Bible
Caledonii; Birth of a Nation (Roman Scotland)
The Jamie Leith Chronicles
And much more…
Look out for news at;
www.ianhallauthor.com
www.vampiresdontcry.com
