by Hall, Ian
Initially I could see the reticence in his stance, even a hint of anger. But when she had finished, his eyes were fastened firmly on her diagram. He hollered for more blackboards, then added a few more words to hers.
“And you two work like this all the time?” He asked, his eyes still darting to and fro.
“I think the method works,” I said. “We’ve done some inventing over the winter, and it certainly seems to get the creative juices flowing.”
“I’ll say it does.” His eyes roamed from one diagram to the other.
Chapman sat us down at my desk and made us tell the whole story. Our meeting, our invention, and the work we have done over the winter in Harvard. I fished inside my briefcase and pulled out a folder. “That’s our best attempt at the completed curriculum for the Criminal Science course.”
“Criminal Science?” he smiled, nodding his head slightly. “I like the sound of that. It has a certain ring to it.” He opened the folder and glanced at the table of contents on the first page. “Nice work.”
“Thank you Paul,” I said. “Emily and I worked on it together.” I knew that it was time to drop the bombshell. “I want Emily to work with us. I want her to come to Springfield; I think she’d be an asset.”
His brows clouded his eyes for only a fleeting moment. “I don't think that’s a good idea, Francis.”
I determined to push my case. “You saw what she did with the diagram you saw how her mind works. She’s good, Paul.”
Emily had been quiet so far. “I can pay my own way.”
I could see that Paul was unconvinced. “When do we leave?” I asked.
“It has to be in the next couple of days.” He said. “If Johnny Reb continues the pattern from Decatur to Springfield the next progression is Jacksonville; I was thinking about making a base there. His timings on the spring murders are like clockwork; only days apart, but of course he may strike anywhere.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” I said. “On the way I can take Emily home to the Orchard and introduce her to Mamma and sister Margaret.”
“Oh,” Emily coughed theatrically, “I get introduced to Mom now do I?”
I tried my best to produce a confident smile. “It has to happen sometime.”
Paul looked at each of us in turn. “The two of you to know that this is dangerous work don’t you?” Chapman said, interrupting our reverie.
“No more dangerous than the laboratory in Harvard.” I countered.
Just then a woman appeared from a doorway I’d never noticed before. She looked middle-aged, and wore a dress completely in black; she reminded me of a younger Missus Bainbridge. Paul stood up quickly; almost too quickly. “Anna?” He said. “I’d like you to meet Francis Smalling and his friend Emily Hettinger. This is Anna Jenkins, she operates our telegraph.”
“We have a telegraph?” I asked. “When did this happen?”
After the introductions were made, Paul brought us up to date with the idea of the central database for all criminal activity in the country. It made total sense, yet it seemed to me to be a massive undertaking to be performed with just one woman. I watched his eyes as he spoke. Every time he mentioned Anna by name he seemed to glance in her direction and it occurred to me that despite his seeming innocence, he may have intentions towards her.
“So where will Emily stay when she’s here in Chicago?” Paul asked.
“I thought to get her another room,” I said. “Although it seems a bit silly to go through the rigmarole of booking a room for just a couple of days.”
“She could bunk with me,” Anna countered. “I have a huge bed and if it's only for a couple of days we could rough it.”
I looked at Emily and she nodded. “I can do that.” She said.
“Then it’s settled,” Anna said. She smiled at Emily then turned and left leaving the office through the same door into the building next to ours.
“New doors, telegraph, new secretaries, what else have I missed?” I asked.
“Well,” Paul sat down again. “It’s funny you should ask; only another detective agency nosing around. I had to chase three of them back to Boston. It seems Allan Pinkerton has been stirring up all kinds of hornets nests talking to the railroads.”
Two days later, the three of us rode that now familiar road South to Springfield. As we travelled we discussed all aspects of the case so far. Emily had changed into jodhpurs and a tweed riding jacket. Behind her, rolled tightly in a bundle lay her only dress to come south with us, the rest being left in Anna’s room. But the most unusual item of her attire were the goggles she wore when riding. Copper rimmed, with tinted green glass.
“I have an aversion to dust in my eyes.” She had said on donning the strange gear.
“I’m quite certain they kept the dust out, but can you see through them?” I asked.
Well, the look she gave me was quite damning. “They are properly calibrated lenses, you idiot. Not only do they keep the dust out of my eyes, they’re spectacles too.”
I shook my head and silently cursed that we couldn’t take a carriage to Jacksonville, but it simply wouldn’t have been practical. There was no alternative to travelling light at this stage, the road between Chicago and Springfield was heavily rutted and to have taken a coach would have both added days to the journey and been very uncomfortable.
As we neared the farm I grew more and more apprehensive. I was now only hours from introducing my lady friend to my mother and sister, and if Emily had suggested forgetting the whole thing I would have eagerly agreed.
Saying our goodbyes to Paul, we parted company at the edge of the farm, where Emily finally took off her goggles, and Paul rode on to Springfield to spend the night.
The Apple trees looked in good health, the blossom had not yet fully started.
“It looks simply beautiful Francis,” Emily said, a smile encompassing her whole face. The marks where her goggles had sat were still red under her eyes. “I had never dreamt it would look so good.”
“It’s just ‘home’ to me.”
“Oh I can’t wait to see it in full bloom.”
“Or after the blossom falls,” I laughed as we rode gently down the track to the farm. “It’s like snow all over again, just not as cold.”
But as we neared the farmhouse, butterflies rose in my stomach. I had only met this girl four months previously, but now her initiation with mamma and Margaret lay only seconds away.
On reaching the yard, we tied our horses to the rail near the white gate, and I led the way up the garden path to the front door. Emily walked confidently behind me, dusting her jodhpurs as she walked.
I knocked at the door, then opened it slightly. “Mamma? Margaret?”
Nothing.
Walking into the kitchen, I surprised a busy Marsha by the stove, and she turned, her hands held high. “Well, if it isn’t Master Francis!” she squealed, rushing her considerable bulk over to hug me quite remorselessly. Then she roughly shoved me to one side, looking at Emily. “And who might this be?”
“This is Miss Emily Hettinger, she’s my…”
“Oh, I know who she is!” Marsha gushed, giving Emily a similar embrace. “It’s written all over your face! Welcome to you, missy.”
“Eh, thank you,” Emily said, looking quite bemused.
“Your sister’s down by the south side, she’s prunin’,”
“And Mamma?”
Marsha’s exuberance ceased immediately. “Ah, well…” her head hung low, and suddenly she seemed to have lost the ability to talk.
“Come on!” I almost shouted, thinking the worst. “Out with it.”
“Your Mamma is being looked after in Springfield.”
I know that my brows furrowed down over my eyes, I could see them. “Looked after? What does that mean exactly?”
“Well, maybe’s I should leave that for your sister, but things ain’t never been the same since Rebekah left. Your Mamma slid downhill pretty damn quick, Francis.”
It sounded so
unusual for Marsha to cuss.
“So where exactly is she?” I persisted.
“In Springfield,” Marsha said, folding her arms.
“You’ve already said as much.” I looked at Emily, but she now just stood, looking slightly embarrassed by the whole thing.
“I’ve already said too much,” Marsha finally said, with some reluctance. “You better go see your sister.”
“On the south side?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,”
I gave her a warm smile, and turned to leave. I could hear Emily’s footsteps behind me. As I walked back outside, I realized that Marsha had called me ‘sir’. That had been a first.
I stopped by the horses, and let Emily walk level with me. I clutched for her hand, then led her southwards. “It’s not far.” I said.
“I’m just glad to be off the horse.” She grinned, and despite the recent news, I followed her mood.
I found Margaret up a ladder, her hands straining to both saw a branch and hold onto the tree. I waited until she’d climbed back down to earth before I approached.
“Francis!” she screamed, throwing the saw to one side. We ran together, and embraced in a sea of tears, her cheek finding mine and pressing close. “It’s been such a long winter. I’ve missed you so much!”
Then, she extricated herself from my grasp, and wiped her eyes with her white sleeve. “But I am being rude.” She brushed some dirt from her skirt, looking at Emily, who stood smiling, watching us both. “Are you Emily?”
And to my surprise, she embraced Emily just as fiercely. I could not help but to join the two, holding them both. When Margaret had eventually pushed herself free, she panted, quite out of breath.
“Francis, she is quite lovely.” Margaret said, holding hands, and blinking tears from her eyes.
“Why thank you ma’am,” Emily teased. I think she’d been relieved that the initial meeting had gone so well.
That evening, we ate on the porch, a resplendent meal cooked and served by Marsha, then we were left alone. I let us finish the desert, apple pie of course, then broached the subject.
“Mamma?” I asked simply.
“Yes,” Margaret wiped her mouth delicately with her napkin, then settled it crumpled in her lap, where her gaze lingered. “It’s not an easy thing to say, Francis, but Mamma left a long time ago.” I felt Emily’s hand creep over mine, and we exchanged a dry smile. “But in November, she shut down completely; she wouldn’t even eat. We tried everything, but she began to waste away in front of us.”
I wanted to ask so many questions, but refrained, reminding myself of my last image of Mamma; her sullen glance, her wordless silences.
“In Springfield, she is force-fed every day.” Margaret looked up. “A thin soup through a rubber tube.”
I gasped, wondering how it had gotten so bad.
For a moment, I wondered why Margaret could not have done more to work the situation, then I halted myself. As the answer got placed firmly at my door, I ceased all shifting of blame towards my sister.
Father had left for the war.
Rebekah had been murdered.
And I had left home. How could I place fault with my sister when I myself had shirked my responsibilities?
Paul Chapman, Riding South to Jacksonville
April 3rd, 1867
As we rode south, approaching the Smalling farm, I thought of our newest assistant. How could I complain about Francis foisting his new love on me?
There seemed little doubt the boy was smitten by the new unbidden addition to our ranks, and if I had raised any objection, I felt in no uncertainty where his main loyalty now lay. To continue the enlistment of his assistance, I would have to tread a delicate line between the two.
But to her credit Emily’s quick mind proved interesting to say the least. Her new system of looking at clues would be taught in my ‘Criminal Science’ course, of that I held no doubt; her cartwheel system had already brought some new aspects of the case to the fore.
But of course, as we rode south, I had to constantly remind myself that we were investigating a serial murderer; a man who sliced the throats of young pretty women.
And here we rode, taking a young pretty woman with us; right into his parlor.
As we made good pace, and the conversation flowed from one subject to the other, I could not help being impressed with her empiric stoicism. Although she had the feminine demeanor of a young woman, she seemed impervious to the darker points of the case, and that both worried and heartened me. I sensed that somewhere inside Emily Hettinger lay a murkier side that she hid quite successfully.
I thought of Anna back home in Chicago, and admitted that I already missed her company. As I glanced at Francis and Emily, obviously so much in love, yet so young, so innocent, I considered my own position. Perhaps I could settle down. Perhaps it was now time for Paul Chapman to stop riding across the country looking for ways to die.
But of course, Anna had a husband, so things were complicated on that side.
I slowly admitted that one emotion had risen to the surface to add to the mix.
I was jealous of the youngsters.
I laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny, Paul?” Francis asked, both their faces looked at mine, and I couldn’t help but laugh more.
“Nothing,” I said between gulps of air, and we rode for a while in silence.
Once I’d left the ‘kids’ at the ranch gate, I kicked the horse into a canter, making for Springfield. I’d refused their offer of a free bed for the night, reluctant to get into their new relationship with the sister and mother. I took a room in the larger hotel, and settled down with a novel and a bottle of middle-rate bourbon.
The next morning, I was awoken by a banging at my door. “Paul Chapman?” the voice outside shouted. “Is there a Paul Chapman here?”
I felt awake in a split second, darting to the door, my gun drawn. “Yes?” I shouted back, standing to one side of the door.
“Telegraph message for you.”
That startled me. “Can you slip it under the door?”
I heard a muffled ‘sure’, then the note got pushed firmly through the considerable gap.
“Thank you.”
I unfolded the note.
To Paul Chapman,
Hotel, Springfield, IL.
From A. Jenkins.
Test of our system. Answer as soon as possible. Please wait in office for return answer from me.
Anna.
I quickly got dressed and found the Western Union Office. My message was simple.
Test worked. Received 8.15am. Paul.
I got a reply within three minutes. I shook my head in disbelief. Messages could be exchanged over long distances as easily as between adjoining hotel rooms.
Before I packed my gear and left the town, I dropped into the sheriff’s office, and met the same gent that had directed me to the Smalling Farm, almost a year earlier.
“I remember you,” As we shook hands, he indicated the chair opposite the desk. “What brings you back to Springfield, detective?”
“We expect him to strike again.” I said, sitting down.
He looked genuinely concerned. “Here? Again?”
“Well, we don’t expect him to strike here, but it could be in this area. “I’m heading down to Jacksonville today. I’m going to make that our center of operations.”
“On your own?”
“No,” I gave a wry chuckle. “Francis Smalling’s been drafted into the Agency.”
“Ah,” he seemed impressed. “He’s a clever lad. Head a bit in the clouds, but there’s no doubt he’s got something going on up here.” He tapped his head. “More than most of us, probably,”
“I’ve got one favor to ask, sheriff,” I began, getting to the point of my call. “We have suspicions that the murderer is either involved in the prohibition lobby, or he’s a stage actor. We ask that you keep an eye out for these. You can send a telegraph message to me in Jacksonville.” I pass
ed him one of our flyers. “Just mark it to me, Paul Chapman, Hotel, Jacksonville. You get two bucks for any information.”
I rose to leave, and we shook hands again. “Oh, and another thing; it seems he’s targeting newly-weds, so again, just keep your eyes peeled.”
“Will do, detective,”
And off I headed, down the traces of road to Jacksonville, where I made the same stop at their somewhat smaller sheriff’s office.
When I checked into the hotel, I reserved three rooms, uncertain of young Smalling’s sleeping arrangements, and preferring to err on the side of caution. Finding a nearby saloon, I sat down, making notes; church, newlyweds, traveling plays, prohibition groups, the list had grown, and I could not help feel we had a better grasp.
I looked around the men in the bar-room, wondered as to their backgrounds, drank a couple of beers, then walked back across the street to the hotel.
I felt slightly aggrieved that I found young Smalling with not one, but two women in tow.
“I can explain,” he began, but I signaled for his silence, then led the way to my room.
Patiently I waited for all three to file inside, then closed the door behind us. “What’s going on?” I asked as I sat on the bed.
Francis’ face looked sufficiently red for me to suspect he’d been duped into this latest flagrant escalation of our original agreement. “Who’s the new girl?” I asked him.
He hung his head slightly. “She’s my sister; this Is Margaret.”
Rather than continue the introduction I stayed on Francis. “And what’s she doing here?”
“I’m the only other first-hand witness you have right now,” the girl snapped at me. “You should be grateful I’m here!”
“Grateful?” I returned her word with some vigor, whirling on Francis, who in my opinion should have known better. “We are looking for a demon who ravishes and beheads young girls, and if my eyes don’t deceive me, you, Francis have brought two into his stomping ground!”