Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection (10 page)

The child's voice trembled as he continued. "He looked at me, and I was scared because he had the scissors. Big ones, like daddy's gardening shears. He looked mad, and I thought at first that he was going to get me. But then he just left into the hall. It was quiet for a bit and then mummy and daddy were shouting and I heard it yelling and I ran to see and--"

Bartleby put his arm around the child's shoulder as the boy's voice rose in pitch, pulling him into an embrace. "Shh. Shh. There there, child, it's okay." Tiny sobs emerged as the distraught boy sobbed into Bartleby's shoulder.

"He'd barely even spoken since the police brought him to me," the boy's uncle related quietly. "Never mind the crying. How did your partner get him to open up like that?"

I spoke without shifting my gaze from the pair. "Bartleby is good with children." Bartleby was good with everybody, when he wanted to be. He could manipulate people as easily as an engineer operated a Babbage engine, pulling levers, flipping switches, and bringing forth the outcome he desired. At times I felt as if Bartleby actually saw his fellow man as devices and tools and puzzles, the same way that I approached mechanisms. I didn't know whether that was better or worse than my own social inadequacies.

***

"Poor boy is in for a rough life." I exited the middle class townhouse and waited on the walk while Bartleby retrieved his waistcoat. "Left alone with a bachelor uncle barely older than he is. A boy needs a father to raise him properly."

"Like the fathers we had, James?" Bartleby asked. "Like my father, a drunken wastrel who squandered the family's fortune until I had him declared unfit?"

"You turned out all right."

"Or perhaps like your father, the brute who exploited you and essentially enslaved your talent until you did an end run around him to get yourself an apprenticeship with the Royal Academy of Engineers and Artificers?"

"Our fathers are poor examples," I pulled the cigar from his breast pocket and clipped the tip off. "But we turned out well."

"Did we now?" Bartleby took the cigar back.

"Considering. And Henry's father wasn't a monster."

Bartleby stopped and looked back at the house for a moment, quietly pensive, while I flagged down a hansom cab. "I wouldn't be so sure."

"Of what?" I took advantage of his distraction to steal his cigar again. Frank Herbert had been a bit of a greedy imbecile, but his taste in cigars matched my own.

"Listen, I'm not saying that the boy is better off orphaned. His family was brutally murdered in front of him, there's no denying that he'd have been best served if that hadn't been. But there was a certain lividity to his face – bruises that hadn't entirely healed where one might cuff a child--"

"Fathers hit," I lit the cigar. "It's what they do."

"Discipline doesn't leave bruises. Beatings do."

I was silent at that, climbing into the cab. Poor child, but beyond the matter of the case – it was best not to become too involved, and with the matter of the father's death, pointless at any rate. I'd have to watch out for Bartleby; the man had the tendency to become emotionally invested when deeply engaged.

"Where to, gentlemen?" the driver asked.

"Scotland Yard." Bartleby entered beside me. "Not that we can expect much cooperation from the Met."

***

While I share Bartleby's low opinion of the Metropolitan Police, I do enjoy a visit to Scotland Yard. With assistance from a number of local inventors and engineers (including yours truly) the Criminal Investigation Division had rapidly grown into the world's premiere forensics unit. While I enjoyed, of course, seeing the fruits of my labours being put to good use, I always relished the opportunity to examine my peers' creations, even if only to discern how I could improve upon their work.

"Well, well, look who it is, lads," Inspector Abel stood and greeted us as we entered. He was a large man, a good bit taller than Bartleby and as broadly built as I, always dressed impeccably in his uniform. "Bartleby and James, London's darlings, here to do our jobs for us again. Where would we poor Metropolitan Police be without the likes of private consultants like the pair of you to guide us through our investigations?"

I detected sarcasm. The scowls and chuckles from his peers and co-workers indicated that there may have been some resentment building towards us for some time. The Home Office had bypassed the Met in hiring us several months ago to deal with an assassin that had been evading capture via conventional investigation, and the local broadsheets had decided to start running angles on the uselessness of the police and on the utility of consulting agencies such as ours. Needless to say it hadn't endeared us with the boys of New Scotland Yard.

The fact that we'd literally saved London from a massive hydrogen explosion caused by a floundering airship hadn't bought us any respect. If anything, they only seemed to resent us all the more.

"Struggling, probably." Bartleby sounded bored, examining the non-existent dirt under his fingernails. As I've said, he can be good with people when he desires. When he does not he can take a certain sadistic enjoyment in toying with them.

Abel slapped a rolled up newspaper into Bartleby's chest. Our pictures were splashed across the front, along with the headline: 'CONSULTANTS TO BAIL OUT SCOTLAND YARD AGAIN'. The sub-heading read : 'WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE WHO NEEDS COPPERS?'

Vulgar argot aside, I felt the need to mollify the inspector. "We told them that your assistance in the matter of the Spider's capture was instrumental in--"

"We don't need your charity with the press," Inspector Abel scowled. "Or for you to do our jobs for us."

"Then perhaps you'd better start doing them yourselves," Bartleby said. "We're not here for you, at any rate – just deliver any files pertaining to the Scissorman and we'll be on our merry way."

"Just our files?" Abel snorted. "What, now, is the CID at your disposal, Mr. Bartleby? You're not on the city's dime for this one. I'm under no compulsion to give you a bloody thing."

"You don't have to give us anything, Inspector." Bartleby advanced on the larger man, looking almost puny in comparison. "You're well within your rights to send us away empty handed. In fact, I'd expect nothing less from the likes of you."

"Then I dare say you'll be on your way." Abel grinned, visibly relaxing into a certain satisfaction.

"I've had our hansom wait out front. Its driver is ready to take us to Downing Street. The Home Office – and by Home Office I of course mean Viscount Gladstone – owes us a favour. A favour from the Home Secretary is a valuable thing, not to be squandered on trivialities. Should I find myself forced to waste such a boon for such simple cooperation, you can assure yourself – and your men – that I'll get my pence worth for it by ensuring that the parties responsible serve very short careers."

As Bartleby spoke Inspector Abel's look of smugness had gradually transformed into a grimace, his ruddy face paling. The other officers had very carefully lost interest in the exchange, turning their attentions back to whatever it was they were working on. Abel stared down into Bartleby's eyes for a few tense heartbeats, and for a moment I thought he was actually going to take a swing at him. The big man's fists unclenched and he turned to his desk, returning with a bundle of documents.

"Here," he said.

"Thank you," Bartleby gave a small bow. "That wasn't so difficult, was it? Manners, James. Manners make the world go round. Even a stiff lout like Abel understands the value of a constructive working relationship."

"Let's be off, Bartleby." I hadn't ruled out the possibility of Abel sacrificing his career to choke the life out of Alton Bartleby.

From the increasingly dark gazes Abel was casting him, it looked like he hadn't ruled it out either. "Get out."

"Fare thee well," Bartleby half-waved as I ushered him out the door.

***

Back in the cab Bartleby handed me a portion of the sheaf of papers. "Here you are, James, good man. These are the forensic reports from the bodies that have been recovered."

I took them eagerly. The broadsheets had been lurid in their descriptions of the bodies' mutilations, but they had zero accountability when it came to accuracy. Bartleby looked a little taken aback at my gusto, but he can't help it. Not everyone can reduce the concept of a body to a mere machine of flesh and blood, stripping from it the connotations of humanity.

"While you pore through those I'll go over the incident reports, witness interviews, and crime scene analysis. Such as they are." He flipped through several pages. "Too much to hope, I suppose, that these buffoons would take adequate notes. Still, we'll make do with what we have."

***

The forensic specialist's reports on the conditions of the remains were as fascinating as I'd hoped. I'm no medical doctor and certainly not a pathologist, but I do have an understanding of how human physiology functions. Each victim had suffered a massive degree of trauma. Limbs had been sheared off, torsos dismembered, heads decapitated with tremendous force. The weapon used had been sharp, but the sheer strength employed was beyond the pale for a normal man.

"Do you suppose we're dealing with another clockwork automaton?" Bartleby asked, setting the tea service on the parlour table.

"It's hardly likely. Clockworks are fast and precise, but not typically capable of applying this level of steady force. The specialist's report concludes that the Scissorman literally used his weapon to snip off parts of his victims, some while they were still alive."

"Horrible!" He kept his eyes steady on the cup that he was pouring me.

"Worse yet, it states that the killer kept portions of his victims for some nefarious purpose. About a third of the mass from each murder I'd estimate."

"God, James, when you call it 'mass' like that it sounds so–"

"So much easier to discuss?" I added a precisely calibrated teaspoon of sugar to my cup.

"Vulgar."

"All we are is meat, Bartleby. Flesh and bone."

"What of the soul?" Bartleby poured his own cup.

"Oh, do grow up."

"I'm serious. There's something indefinable that separates man from the animals."

I spoke with a slight singsong while pouring a dollop of cream into my cup. "A sense of pretension about it, perhaps. Delusions of gods, of spirits, of magic and other humbug."

"Good Lord, James." Bartleby looked annoyed, but knew better than to argue. "Your scepticism is dreadfully aggravating at times."

"That scepticism is what makes me a proficient man of science."

"If you insist."

"Let's stick to the matter at hand," I said, bored with ontology. "We know he's tremendously strong. We know he takes trophies."

Bartleby paused for a sip of tea before offering his own thoughts. "We know he knows we're after him."

"We do?"

"The broadsheets," Bartleby reminded me. "We're all over the front pages in connection with the case."

I considered the matter, breaking a cucumber slice in half. "Well, then. Do you suppose he'll come after us?"

"I would."

"Comforting."

"It's plain that the Met can't catch him," Bartleby reasoned. "We caught the Spider. We'll catch the Scissorman. So if he's an adversary worth facing he'll come after us tonight."

"I see. In the case that he's a galvanic clockwork automaton I'll set up the audio device again."

"Better safe than sorry."

"What's our next step?"

"Next we conduct a personal investigation. The Met's reports are next to worthless. I'll proceed to interview the witnesses again. You should revisit the crime scenes. Quite likely that the CID missed something."

***

After tea I made my way to the East End of London. Up until the latest slayings, the Scissorman's victims had been families in lower-income areas, Spitalfields and Whitechapel, murdered in smaller homes and apartments whose landlords had not bothered to re-fasten the doors after the Met had left. As expected, the first two homes were stripped almost bare by their neighbours, anything of value taken and re-purposed by someone else. This didn't bother me overmuch – I'd rather see something scrounged than left alone in an abandoned home, and the Scissorman didn't appear to be interested in interacting with the furnishings.

I took the opportunity to test out one of my latest inventions, Forensic N-Viewers. The goggles' frames contained a phosphorous mercury fluid that refracted off of the lead-treated lenses to create a particular glow that picked up various intensities of N-ray. Blood in particular has a powerful N-ray signature, even after it's been cleaned up, and thus I would be able to get a certain impression of the murder scenes long after the bodies had been carted away. Everything viewed through the N-Viewers was treated with a pale green glow – an unfortunate side effect of the phosphorous in the mercury that meant I would have to remove them should detail work be called for.

My first few investigations followed the same general pattern. The parents' bedrooms were liberally splattered with blood-signatures from the murdered, in patterns indicating that they had been alive and struggling when dismembered. The Scissorman always seemed to enter and leave through the surviving child's bedroom window, as indicated by the N-Ray trail that the bloody limbs had left. A less scientific man would have found the demeanour of these houses – dark, empty, abandoned – eerie in the phosphorous glow of the N-Viewers, but my attention was focused elsewhere. A different sort of N-Ray signature had been left by the killer. It wasn't an impression left by blood or anything physical, just a strange cloud left in the air where he'd traversed, visible only through my Forensic Viewers. It dispersed into the general background N-ray emanations once I'd left the confines of the victims' homes, but within the walls of the house it billowed like smoke.