Automatic Woman Read Online Free Page B

don’t see rooms. They see clues, hints, causes to be linked like puzzle pieces into a great, rational, and hopefully honest story.
    That’s the reality of my work. I’m paid to complete incomplete stories. Usually of the “where are my beautiful possessions” or the “who caved in my husband’s skull” variety.
    I am a thief catcher. I was a thief catcher. I’m not sure the proper tense of verb given that I may or may not be sacked by the firm. The infamous Bow Street Firm in all its wisdom and prestige is going to have to decide if I’m one to keep.
    I am a prisoner awaiting trial for the murder of Dr. James Saxon. Specifically, the grisly, crushing death of Dr. James Saxon.
    As far as I can tell, the prosecutor, Mr. Thomas Agrian, Esq.’s theory of the case is that I had some work-related breakdown and crushed Dr. Saxon with my arms and legs like a human boa constrictor. To the prosecutor’s credit, Dr. Saxon was found with broken arms and organs ground to stew. The prosecutor also believes that after I dispatched the kind doctor, I redirected my madness to the doctor’s creations, his automatic dancers. I apparently ran amok and broke to bits every dancing automaton, saving the Swan Princess, Dr. Saxon’s crown jewel, for my finale. The broken remains of Dr. Saxon’s fine creations were recovered from the orchestral pit of his theater. That is also where they found me, arms and legs wrapped around the inert body of the Swan Princess. If it hadn’t been a murder scene, I’m sure the laughter would have been uproarious instead of just a single snigger from some cold-blooded Met.
    I know this has come up before, but I am a fat man. This was not overlooked in Mr. Agrian, Esq.’s assessment nor the supervising inspector’s investigative report. The inspector considered this reasonable causation, but I consider it a shite presumption against the portly. Really, how many fat-man-crushing-deaths can there be in London for them to follow this logic honestly? My ear is pressed firmly to the underbelly of this city and I’ve never heard of a fat man crushing another man with arms and legs. Sure there’s the occasional beating fatality, but that is a thing common to all weights of men and even some women.
    A laughable theory is not the worst part of their case. The worst part is this: I have no motive. Dr. Saxon was my client, my record with the Bow Street Firm holds no past suspicions of homicide or fratricide or regicide or any other ‘cide. The lack of motive makes considerable sense when you factor in that I had nothing, or at least very little to do with the death of Dr. Saxon.
    Regardless, here I sit, in a bloodied up cell where the powers that be conspire to lead me to a hangman’s farewell. If I’ve had worse days than this, they exist in suppressed memories because I’d be buggered if I can find a lower point.
    I dipped the toe of my boot into the congealing blood pool and traced crimson lines. I drew first a cross, then an “x” over the cross, then the red lines of Union Jack, very patriotic. A jailor interrupted my artistic endeavor.
    “Jolly, you’ve got visitors.”
    I looked up at the jangler of keys. Jailor Portsmith was a blunt and unimaginative man. I’d met him before as we traveled in similar professional circles. It was professional courtesy that put me alone in this cell as opposed to the general population of Whitechapel’s worst.
    “Did you use the plural tense?”
    Portsmith looked confused. I felt bad. The man had done me a solid and here I was proving him stupid.
    “Do I have more than one visitor, Basil?”
    “Yeah, you got two. You’re Mr. Congeniality, I guess.”
    Portsmith popped the lock with a giant antiquated key. He held up a pair of manacles.
    “Basil, come on?” I said.
    “Policy, mate. While you’re here you’re one of the uglies. Now put on your clinkers.”
    I put the manacles over my wrists and clicked them nice and loose. At least I had that