Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

I shrug. It doesn’t hurt too much now; I bit off half a morphine pill in the cab. “You paid me.”

“You saved me. Let me at least help.”

“It would help to have tea,” I say.

I hear her shoes clicking on the floor as she goes into the kitchen. I turn onto my side and look at the fire for a few seconds before noticing the envelope on my coffee table. It has my name on it, so I open it and read the typed note inside.

Step with care. If you were a part of the unpleasantness with Karol Ivanov, Mr. Frieze will not be pleased.

There’s no signature. I drop it on the table and go back to staring at the fire, waiting for Alexandra and my tea. Mr. Frieze doesn’t know for sure if I was involved, and I apparently rate a warning, not a bullet.

The fire starts to get fuzzy as the morphine takes over. If Alexandra ever came back with my tea, I don’t remember it.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer

January 31, 1925

Page Four

“Businessman’s Will Halts Redevelopment of Lakefront”

The redevelopment of Garrett Street by Frieze Holdings was halted yesterday when the will of local businessman Vasily Novotny, who died earlier this month in what police called an accident, was read at Seattle Police Headquarters. The will, discovered by Officer Tom O’Leary in Novotny’s brother’s downtown shop, specifically deeded the five buildings not to his family but to a trust set up through Washington Mutual Savings Bank. The trust specifically dictates that the buildings are to remain residential housing for no fewer than fifty years from the date of Novotny’s death.

Speaking for Frieze Holdings, Michael Bon Terre said, “we were of course saddened to hear of Mr. Novotny’s death, but we will continue to investigate this will — both its legality and how binding it is. Frieze Holdings is dedicated to redeveloping the Garrett Street lakefront district.” The bank, however, told the Post-Intelligencer that, to the best of their knowledge, the trust takes precedence.

The elder Novotny, Pyotr, a watchmaker, was tragically found dead in his Franklin Street shop on Wednesday, shot by assailants unknown. Police continue investigating.

I had spinal surgery in early 2009. Toward the end of 2008, I had an idea for a steampunk story about a detective in Seattle, and I wanted to get the story written before the surgery happened, just in case I didn’t make it. I finished the first draft of “The Clockwork Russian” on January 5, although the bulk of the writing was done over the course of three days the week prior. I had surgery on January 6, came home on January 9, and spent five weeks recovering. It wasn’t until mid-May that I could really focus on the story again, and I’ve been tweaking it on and off ever since; I’ve even worked on outlining it into a full-length novel (which may yet be written).

I’m a big fan of Sherlock Holmes; I’ve read all the original stories and seen many of the films. I wanted an American Holmes with a checkered past, and I created that in John Bach. There’s history hinted at in “The Clockwork Russian” that I hope to explore someday, and reopening the case of Mrs. Willoughby’s intended was going to be the sequel to this story. It might still be. Bach is also the first non-white main character in any story I’ve written, and I hope the storytelling did justice to him in that regard.

Because this is alternate history, I tried to extrapolate what a relatively non-violent ex-weapons expert might use or invent. Hence John Bach’s preference for tasers — or, as he calls them, electric guns. The single-shot weapon Bach uses to defeat Ivanov was inspired by a similar one in Terry Pratchett’s The Fifth Elephant (I think). Oh, and I actually do have an acquaintance whose last name is Frieze. It was too good a villain name not to use, and I imagine that, if there is to be a sequel to “The Clockwork Russian”, Mr. Frieze will return.

Commander Markel folded his arms. “Well?”

I looked past him. Blood spread across the parquet floor of the dining cabin. Face-down at the center of the room was a man in evening dress, the tails of his suit slowly soaking up the blood that had, until very recently, been inside his body. Except for the blood, the scene was quite peaceful: a few of the staff near the kitchen entrance, the chief steward standing beside the first mate.

“I just got here, Commander,” I said. “But it certainly looks like he’s been murdered.”

“Bravo,” Markel said. He cleared his throat and leaned in my direction. “What are you going to do about it?” He was clearly trying to intimidate me, but I was more than six inches taller than him. It wasn’t going to happen.

Nor was I going to rise to the bait. I slipped past Markel before he could do more than halfheartedly menace me. I had to get closer to the body, but the blood had spread too far. Since I didn’t want to disturb the scene until I got a better look, I was going to have to step up onto a chair and walk from table to table. At least the tables didn’t wobble; on an airship, everything was nailed down that could be nailed down. I certainly couldn’t have done this on the ground. Nor could I have done it in heels; fortunately, given the nature of my job, I could get away with boots.

I looked down at the corpse from the table nearest it. There was an awful lot of blood; my uniform skirt was going to be soaked by the time I was done examining the body.

“Mr. Peters,” I called to the steward, “I’ll be needing a tablecloth.”

“They are at your disposal, Constable McDonald.”

“Thank you.” I stepped off the table and onto a chair, then gathered up the white linen in both hands and yanked. Unfortunately, not a single piece of china, cutlery, or glass remained in place. I smiled tightly at no one in particular as I folded the tablecloth into a pad. My boots made sticky noises in the blood as I eased myself onto the floor and laid the pad beside the body. After that, there was nothing for it but to smooth my skirt under my knees and lowering myself the rest of the way. I pulled a pair of thin leather gloves out of my jacket pocket and worked them over my hands, then reached across the body and turned it onto its back.

Even I couldn’t hold back a small sound of surprise: it had been a long time since I’d seen a throat cut from ear to ear. That explained the amount of blood, at least. The man’s face was locked in an expression of surprise, dark brown eyes stuck open by congealing blood. There was also a blotch of it on his lower stomach; I’d need to expose him to see more. I worked my fingers between the rent in the fabric and ripped.

Blood misted over my skirt. I made a disgusted noise and removed my left glove so I could take a small kit out of my inner pocket. I flipped it open and set it next to me on the pad. Inside: some of the tools of my trade, including a long, narrow probe I could use to explore the wounds without touching them.

But there was little to learn from the body. I got more from the contents of the dead man’s pockets: a leather folio, room and wardrobe keys, assorted small change, and a flask half-full of — I opened it and sniffed — distressingly-cheap vodka. As if there wasn’t far better liquor available just about everywhere aboard ship.

“Constable, are you quite finished?” I glanced to the right; Commander Markel had assumed a bored expression.

“I think so.”

“Good. The staff needs to clean this room, and the passengers will be arriving for their late meals soon.”

I got to my feet, folding the evidence into a clean-looking cloth napkin and tucking it into my jacket pocket, then picked my way back across the tables to the exit. “Throat cut,” I told the first mate. “And stabbed, low in the body. I’m guessing it was a crime of passion.”