Clockwork Killer (Steampunk Detectives: Book 1)

by Hall, Ian

  “Head,” I shouted, trying to catch him off guard, seemingly in his element. Francis fired first, hitting the head dead center. I sighted into his bullethole, and got to within half an inch. “How bad do you want the killer of your sister Rebekah found?” I said into the silence that followed.

  He whirled on me. “Want are you talking about?” His words snapped at me like the crack of a whip.

  I sighted along my pistol’s sights, and fired again, making a small group in the target’s head. “Exactly what I said.” I fired again. “How much would give to bring the bastard to justice?”

  He gave me a cold hard stare, then holstered his pistol. With an exaggerated stance he faced the target, then drew from the hip.

  Fast.

  Now, he wasn’t as fast as I’d ever seen, but definitely enough to rank in the top ten percent.

  The target shook with another hit. Not clearly in the center of the head, maybe in the eye, but he’d killed it for sure.

  “I can offer you the chance to catch this guy.” I said, not willing to get into a drawing match with the kid. Quick-draw had never been my forte, and I knew I couldn’t even come close.

  “How?” He whirled, suddenly standing in front of me. “What the hell can you do that’d give me such a chance?” He shouted into my face, his gun pointed away.

  I met his glare with my own. “Work with me.” I said softly.

  “With you?”

  “Aye,” I could hear Allan Pinkerton say the word.

  I watched the range of emotions cross his face as he processed the statement.

  “How would that work out?”

  “Work with me.” I repeated. “Help me bring Johnny Reb to justice.” I used his own words against him.

  “What would happen to the farm?” His features gave no hint that he gave the question any gravity, but his words showed him on the turn.

  “You’ve already got farm hands, employ a manager. You’re way over-qualified anyway, and you know it.”

  I saw him flinch, just as the target had done a few seconds before. I’d hit a nerve.

  “And Mamma?”

  I allowed myself a grin. “You planned on staying here all your life? You have fingers in so many pies; do you think Sangamon County could ever hold you?”

  “Sister Margaret?”

  “She’ll marry, and leave you in an instant.” I said, flipping my revolver up, and reloading. “She won’t even give you a second thought.”

  I could see conflicting emotions play over his face. “What about my work?” he pointed at the summer house.

  “Work with your experiments during winter,” I said with confidence. “There’s not a lot of investigation done then. Besides, my position allows us full access to Harvard University.”

  Oh boy, I watched that one hit home. He gave me a real serious look, his brows suddenly low on his forehead. “Harvard?”

  “I have the task of bringing together all the sciences that would link together to start the first university course in Criminology. I need help.”

  “Criminology?”

  I could tell the word was new on his lips. “The science of the modern detective,” I postured.

  “Fingerprints?”

  “You can be at the cutting edge of the art,” I said, watching his body change. Gone was the combative hope of superiority. Instead in its place sat a new hope; a way out of his dead-end job, a path to the highest seat of learning in the country.

  “How much does it pay?” he asked, and I reeled in anticipation.

  “Forty dollars a week, plus expenses.” I ventured.

  He suddenly looked deflated, and sighed. “Is that your best offer?”

  “Forty-five, plus expenses,” I said. “My top offer.”

  “I almost make that skimming from the farm now,” he still looked conflicted, but his expression showed he was giving the idea serious consideration.

  “Yeah, but do you get access to Harvard’s library?” I pushed my advantage home. “Do you get to rub shoulders with Dennis Morgan?” I’d done a bit of digging myself, and found Morgan to be one of the most eminent physicists Harvard had. It seemed to do the trick. I could see him wavering. “You’d have access to all Harvard’s laboratories.”

  He thrust out his hand so sharply I thought he’d drawn on me, but the pistol sat firmly in his holster. “Done,” he said. “Now all I have to do is tell Mamma.” He frowned in the direction of the farmhouse. “And Margaret.”

  Off to Chicago

  Francis Smalling, Smalling Apple Farm, Sangamon County, Illinois

  May 10th 1866

  “I’ll be back for harvest. I promise.” I said more resolutely than I knew for certain. Johnny Reb had already struck twice during harvest time, and I fully understood the inherent deceit in my statement. Hank and the men had been given small pay rises, and I knew they could take care of any manual work on the farm. We’d raised the two laborers to $15 per week, and foreman David Grantham to $25. I felt certain that we now paid over the average and that would keep the men happy. David had worked for us since before father left for the war, he had proved more than dependable. He was almost family.

  Mamma gave me a hug, although there seemed little life in it, she hadn’t even argued against my decision. The hardest one to convince had been Margaret. I had to give her instruction in the use of her new Smith and Wesson. I had acquired it second hand from Matheson’s, and although the finish was already worn, it proved just as accurate as my own.

  We took a day and went through the finances of the business. I took Margaret into town, and although she smiled outwardly at the people who greeted us, her pale demeanor told me of her inner turmoil. I introduced her to the bank manager, the blacksmith, and bought more ammunition at the general store.

  On the morning of my departure, Margaret made me swear with my hand on the bible, a devout promise to write once a week. The letter would contain all pertinent facts about my life, my education, my adventures, and of course, details of our sister’s case.

  Considering the amount of equipment I wanted to take with me, I packed relatively light. To my two saddlebags, which contained just two changes of clothes, I’d added a waterproof cape which I tied as a bedroll behind my saddle. Behind the bedroll sat a wooden box, tied to saddle and under horse. Inside the box, I had fashioned a selection of tools which I thought I’d need; my best microscope, and a few knives and tweezers for dissecting and slicing. All packed tightly in rubber, all waterproof, all insanely valuable to me.

  At the door, as the sun rose, I embraced my sister once more, her grip tighter than any time before, her lips close to my ear, her breath panting in waves into my heart.

  “Now you come back to me, Francis Edward Smalling.” She said softly. “And you write, just like you promised. Or I swear, I’ll come and hunt you down myself.”

  She relaxed her embrace slowly and let me go. “I will, Margaret, on all counts.”

  I gave her my best smile, and as I could feel tears begin to collect behind my eyelids, I turned smartly and walked to the end of the garden, clipping the white gate closed after me.

  I mounted, and settled myself in the saddle before I looked up again. Mamma had joined sister at the doorway, and although she didn’t raise her waving hand like Margaret, I knew that she mouthed ‘goodbye son’.

  I rode down the avenue to the main road with such a fear of never coming back, I almost turned the horse round. Almost.

  The road to Chicago seemed a million miles from my sheltered life in Sangamon County.

  I set off on the north road, making for Bloomington, Pontiac, then Joliet, all stops suggested by Chapman.

  Three days of riding took me further from my home than I’d ever been before, but it also brought home the new level of danger I’d thrown myself into. At the Pontiac stables, my box was stolen; my instruments gone, but most important of all, my microscope. The one valuable item I’d decided to bring with me, the one instrument I’d intended to use to bring a
new kind of detective work to Paul Chapman.

  As I rode north, I decided I’d work from a different direction, and thought of a series of lenses that would fall from a slot in my hat, ending directly over my right eye. A larger lens, in the shape of a magnifying glass, would be held by hand, giving me both the same magnification of my original microscope, and the flexibility of use; no more large boxes inviting the attention of thieving hands on the road.

  I’d look a bit silly with the lenses on my hat, but, then, I didn’t care that much; I already used the band of my hat to carry my pocket watch.

  By the time I reached the outskirts of Chicago, the knot in my gut had increased considerably. I recalled the address; ‘Just off the corner of Wells and Evergreen’. The surrounding area became more and more urbanized as I rode. Country gave way to settlement, then settlement to industrialization.

  As I neared the correct area of Chicago, I crossed the railroad lines for the first time. I looked along the double tracks to either side of me, and marveled at the wavy straight lines of track. I had indeed moved away from the country. Once clear of the tracks I looked back from a distance as to not spook the horse, and deliberately stayed put to watch a train go by. That shrieking smoking dragon brought such emotion to me, I swear I cried. The Iron Horse was the embodiment of science, brought to the public forum ready for economic use. I felt privileged to have witnessed it.

  I made my way steadily north until I reached the signed area of Chicago called the North East Side.

  The Pinkerton building looked imposing enough; three stories of brownstone building with a small nondescript sign; Pinkerton National Detective Agency. A single eye stared out from the sign, with the motto; We Never Sleep.

  “Stone,” I said out loud as I approached, comparing it to the buildings in Springfield which were all constructed of wood, then rode round to the back, where I had been told the stables were situated.

  Once I had dismounted, a genial man called Jennings led me upstairs to the main building. “Mister Chapman?” he called into a huge office. There must have been thirty desks, all placed in orderly rows, some sat singly, some pushed together in pairs. Only two were occupied, both men looking up in our direction at the sound of Jennings’ voice.

  “Here!” Paul Chapman stood quickly with a loud scrape of chair legs on wooden floor, and crossed to us, weaving his hips past desk corners. “How did your trip go?” He asked as he shook my hand.

  “Fine,” I answered easily. “The hotels were just as you’d described them.”

  Chapman dismissed Jennings. “This is the new guy!” he announced as he walked. “Francis Smalling, my new partner.”

  The man raised his hand in salute, and I did likewise.

  The title of partner gave me cause to think, Paul and I were in a partnership against the infamous ‘Johnny Reb’.

  “This is where you work, Francis.” Paul indicated I sit down at the desk facing his. “Mister Pinkerton will see us shortly, and you’ll address him as Mister Pinkerton, until he allows you to do otherwise.”

  “Got it,” I nodded.

  “And despite being over here for over twenty years, his Scottish accent’s still a bit strong, so listen carefully to begin with. You’ll soon get used to it.”

  I tried to calm my nerves, looking round the large office, but to be honest it proved difficult. The other man in the room was engrossed in his own case, and it felt difficult to believe that I actually sat in Chicago, in the Pinkerton building. From outside, through the open windows, considering the quiet of the farm, the noise was off-putting. All this, and less than a month had passed since my sister’s murder.

  “I’ll introduce you to the bank along the road,” Chapman broke into my musings, and I nodded. “Get you set up with an account. You’ll need somewhere to put your wages.” Everything that happened to me seemed to remind me of the sudden change in my life. “I rent a room in an apartment just ten minutes’ walk from here, and there are always vacancies. Not that I’m there a lot, it’s just a place to base myself from.”

  I looked at the maps and papers on Chapman’s desk, spilling over the divide onto mine. “It’s all a bit hard to take in.”

  He gave me such a knowing look, I couldn’t fail to see the flash of memories in his eyes. I gave him a few moments to collect his thoughts.

  “I was a sergeant in the 15th Infantry, out of Ohio, when I first met Allan Pinkerton; Shiloh, 1862. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and told me to report to Major Haldane in the rear echelon.” He looked at a point above my head as he spoke. “I’ll never know why he chose me, and he’s never said. I went from frontline jockey to spy and spy-runner in the blink of an eye. I reckon although we came through many scrapes, Pinkerton’s training kept me alive.”

  I could hear his love and devotion to his boss etched in his words. I only could hope for such dedication. “When do we go to Harvard?” I asked. I yearned to see the laboratories and the library.

  “Soon enough,” He replied. “We have a few months for such things before we head to Wisconsin for the harvest time.”

  I nodded, deep in my guilt at my lie my family. It made sense that we should be in the area when Johnny Reb struck again, in our reasoning we never doubted that he wouldn’t. He had begun a pattern, which we assumed would only be broken when finally caught.

  A door to one side opened and I looked up at the intrusion. A middle-aged woman dressed in black moved quietly towards us.

  “Mister Pinkerton will see you now.” Although she spoke softly, her words were clipped and sharp.

  “Missus Bainbridge,” Chapman began, “this is Francis Smalling.”

  I stood, but she made no move to shake my hand. She bowed her head slightly. “Mister Smalling.”

  I nodded. “Pleased to meet you,” I watched her move away, almost as if she floated on air below her dark skirts.

  Following Chapman we walked to Pinkerton’s office.

  I expected taller, something out of a James Fenimore Cooper novel, but Pinkerton was much less distinctive than I’d envisaged him. Balding, it seemed as if every hair on his face had fallen, taken refuge under his chin, and fastened itself there in a thick triangular beard.

  “Come in laddie,” He rose to meet us. “Come in.” Even those few words were laced with a thick Scottish brogue.

  His handshake felt rough, yet very firm, and I smiled as much as I could against his penetrating stare, feeling rather nervous.

  But the rough exterior hid a sharp wit and agile mind. We spoke of the Johnny Reb case, of Harvard, and of his aspirations of his detective agency. Then he surprised me by a glimpse into his inner musings; he was actually a visionary, fully seeing a personal telegraph in each house one day, one managed by the user to deliver personal messages. He talked of a national database for all criminal activity in the country; one searchable by any detective, in any location. In a short meeting, Allan Pinkerton had proved both farsighted and innovative, and that surprised me; I had expected the ordinary, and had been pleasantly shocked.

  The next few days were spent in mundane tasks, crucial to my continued service, yet they frustrated me; the bank account, the money in my pocket, familiarizing myself with the internal workings of the office, Missus Bainbridge’s duties.

  The most surprising moment actually surprised me; the closing of my room door at my digs, leaving me alone inside. My whirlwind week had taken me from my family home to my own room, and it held a certain coldness to it. As I stood in the small apartment, the walls seemed to close in on me.

  I shook my head and got busy. When I’d unpacked the few novels and journals I’d brought to read, it did make it more personal, my refuge from the outside world. I determined to buy some maps or scientific drawings to fix to the bare walls to bring some energy to the drab paintwork.

  Then, just as I’d come to terms with my new home, Chapman announced that we were to travel to Cambridge. To Harvard.

  That proved to be the beginning of another adventu
re. Accustomed to traveling by horse, I felt a little like a fish out of water, my small suitcase in hand. Standing on the platform of the hectic Chicago station, hundreds of people moved around me, I thought my head would burst. Ticket inspectors, emotional goodbyes, and waiting passengers filled the platform, and boys running messages scurried between them.

  I walked along the platform to the engine, and stood and marveled. The smell of the burning wood from the furnaces of the trains filled the air. I could almost feel the steam pressure of the boilers, and the strain on the rivets and welds that held them together.

  Everything we did seemed new to me; even the simplest things, getting on the train, getting our seats, sitting in a cabin of total strangers so close you should have been friends.

  I know that I should have engaged Chapman in more conversation on that trip, but I had to constantly excuse myself, just to look out the window in wonder. As we sped across the country, we passed stations by the dozen, each one different in some way, each busy with loading and unloading. I marveled at the organization required to keep the whole ensemble moving so smoothly.

  But the best part was between stations. When the engine built up a speed so breakneck, I wondered if we should lift off the rails and simply fly to Cambridge, Boston and Harvard.

  I wondered how I would write this to Margaret, then realized with a huge pang of guilt that a week had already passed, and I had not put pen to paper.

  At the next large station, where we were scheduled to stop for an hour, I found a stationer nearby and once I had re-boarded the train, I began my first letter.

  Paul Chapman, Chicago Railroad, Chicago, Illinois

  June 5th 1866

  It was like looking at a wild deer, his eyes were sometimes as a child’s, full of wonder, flitting like a butterfly past items of instant interest. In the station in Chicago he seemed to take him every detail his gaze lingering on the most unusual aspects, I could see him cataloguing each case study for future use.