The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man

  “Really? I wouldn't know. It used to give Grandfather the heebie-jeebies, but my guess is it's nothing more than the piano stretching and contracting with changes of temperature.”

  They reached the top of the slope and Tichborne pointed to the surrounding land.

  “All these wheat and barley fields are part of the estate, up to that line of trees, there. The houses yonder form the hamlet of Tichborne, which is mostly occupied by the families who work our land. As you can see, the estate is on a shallow slope that runs down into the Itchen Valley and the river. Over there—” he pointed northeastward “—is the village of Alresford.”

  They continued on along the top border of the Crawls then turned at the corner and started back down toward the mansion. When they passed into the bottom field, Burton stopped and walked out into the crop.

  “What are you doing?” Tichborne asked.

  “Wait a moment.”

  Burton pushed the end of his cane into the loamy soil then leaned on it with his full weight. It sank into the soft earth until the soil's resistance stopped it.

  Swinburne said: “Anything?”

  “No.”

  “What were you expecting?” asked Tichborne.

  “I don't know. I'm convinced there's something under these two fields. I thought perhaps the end of my cane might encounter rock or brickwork.”

  “Wheat roots can reach a depth of almost four feet,” the baronet said, “so the soil here is deep; too deep for your stick to touch the bottom, if there is one.”

  Burton withdrew his cane, wiped a handkerchief along its length, and returned to the edge of the field.

  They made their way down to the carriageway.

  “I'd like to see your swans,” Tichborne said. “Would you care to stroll around to the lake with me?”

  “Certainly,” Burton agreed.

  As they walked, the king's agent cast sidelong glances at the aristocrat. Sir Alfred's mood seemed strange; he was touring his estate with what appeared to be a sense of finality, as if he were saying goodbye to his ancestral home. Burton's intuition told him that this was more than the baronet's reaction to his supposed brother's imminent arrival—something else was bothering him.

  “I expect you'll be somewhat relieved to see the Claimant tomorrow,” he said. “After all these weeks, you'll finally set eyes on the man, and will, at least, know one way or the other.”

  “Yes, perhaps so,” Tichborne answered, with a distracted air.

  He fell into a self-absorbed silence They circled the lake then returned to the house with barely another word spoken.

  By suppertime, despite that the rooms were brightly lit with camphor lamps and mole candles, an ominous atmosphere had settled over the house. Sir Alfred sat at the dinner table with Burton and Swinburne, Colonel Lushington, Henry Hawkins, and Doctor Jankyn, and began to drink even more heavily than the night before.

  Conversation was desultory and sporadic, and the men ate with little enthusiasm, though the food was excellent.

  “Your Mrs. Picklethorpe works wonders,” Swinburne commented after a long and uncomfortable silence.

  “She does,” Sir Alfred answered, with a slight slur. “The Tichborne pantries have always enjoyed the reputation of being the best stocked in all of Hampshire, and she certainly does justice to their contents.”

  Burton froze with a forkful of beef half raised to his mouth.

  “Richard?” Swinburne enquired, puzzled by his friend's expression.

  Burton lowered the fork. “Do you think I might see the kitchen and pantries at some point?” he asked.

  “Of course,” said Tichborne. “Why? Do you take an interest in cooking?”

  “Not at all. It's the architecture of the house that fascinates me.”

  “The cook and her staff will be cleaning up now, after which it'll be a little late. What say you we go down there tomorrow morning before the Claimant shows up?”

  “Thank you.”

  They finished eating.

  Tichborne stood and swayed slightly.

  “I'd much appreciate a few rounds of billiards,” he said. “Will you gentlemen join me?”

  “Sir Alfred—” Doctor Jankyn began, but the baronet stopped him with a sharp gesture.

  “Don't fuss, Jankyn. I'm perfectly fine. Join us.”

  They repaired to the billiard room. Hawkins began a game with Swinburne and was surprised to find the poet a formidable opponent.

  Bogle served port and sweet sherry.

  Lushington put a flame to a meerschaum pipe, and Jankyn lit a briar, while Burton, Hawkins, and Tichborne all opted for cigars. Within minutes, the room was thick with a blue haze of tobacco smoke.

  “By golly, it's a veritable drubbing!” the lawyer exclaimed as Swinburne potted three balls in quick succession.

  “If only you were as accurate with a pistol!” Burton whispered to his friend.

  “To be perfectly honest,” Swinburne replied, grinning, “I'm not hitting the balls I'm aiming at. It's sheer luck that the ones I am hitting are going in!”

  He won the game against Hawkins, then played Colonel Lushington and beat him, too.

  Sir Alfred took up a cue. “I'll be the next lamb to the slaughter,” he announced, and they began the game.

  As Burton watched, he became aware that he was feeling oddly apprehensive, and when he looked at the others’ faces, he could see they were experiencing the same sensation: the inexplicable presentiment that something was going to happen.

  He shook himself and emptied his glass in a single swallow.

  “Another port, please, Bogle.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “You might open the window a crack, too. It's like a London pea-souper in here.”

  “I would, sir, but it's worse outside.”

  “Worse? What do you mean?”

  “It's the mist, sir. It's risen unusually high tonight—quite suddenly, too. Right up to the second storey of the house, and thicker than I've ever seen it.”

  Burton crossed to the window and drew aside the curtain. The room was brilliantly reflected in the glass, and he could make out nothing beyond. Twisting the catch open, he drew up the sash a little, bent over, and peered through the gap. A solid wall of white vapour collapsed inward and began to pour over the sill and into the room.

  Hurriedly, he closed the window and pulled the curtain across it.

  Behind him, the room fell silent.

  A glass hit the floor and shattered.

  He turned.

  Swinburne, Lushington, Hawkins, Jankyn, Tichborne, and Bogle were all standing motionless. Even through the blue haze, he could see that the blood had drained from their faces. They were staring wide-eyed at a corner of the room.

  Burton followed their gaze.

  There was a woman there—or, rather, a column of denser tobacco smoke that had taken on the form of a thickset, heavy-hipped female.

  She raised a nebulous arm and pointed a tendril-like finger at Sir Alfred Tichborne. Black eyes glared from her head.

  Tichborne shrieked and backed away until he was pressed against the wall, banging into a rack of billiard cues which clattered noisily to the floor.

  “Lady Mabella!” he moaned.

  To either side of him, the haze suddenly congealed, forming two ghostly, indistinct, top-hatted figures. They wrapped transparent fingers around his arms.

  “Bloody hell!” Hawkins breathed.

  Bogle let loose a piercing scream, dropped to his knees, and covered his eyes.

  “For God's sake, help me!” Tichborne wailed.

  Before any of the men could move, the wraiths had dragged the baronet across the room. Lady Mabella surged forward, wrapped her swirling arms around him, and plunged through the door, taking him with her. The door didn't open, nor did it smash; the ghostly woman, wraiths, and man simply disappeared through the wood as if it were nothing but an illusion.

  A muffled cry came from the corridor beyond: “Save me! Oh, Chris
t! They mean to kill me!”

  “After him!” Burton barked, breaking the spell that had immobilised them all.

  In three long strides, he reached the door and wrenched it open in time to see Tichborne being hauled through another at the far end of the passage. Again, the flesh-and-blood baronet passed straight through the portal without it opening or breaking.

  Burton hurtled along the hallway with the others trailing behind, threw open the door, and ran into the drawing room.

  Tichborne's terrified eyes fixed on him.

  “Burton! Please! Please!”

  Lady Mabella levelled her black eyes at the king's agent, and he heard in his mind an accented female voice command: “Do not interfere!”

  He stumbled and clutched his head, feeling as if a spear had jabbed into his brain. The pain passed in an instant. When he looked up again, the ghost and Tichborne had vanished through the door leading to the main parlour.

  “Are you all right?” Swinburne asked, catching up with him.

  “Yes! Come on!”

  They burst into the parlour, paced across it, and tumbled into the manor's entrance hall.

  The two wraiths, led by Lady Mabella, were pulling Sir Alfred up the main staircase. He screamed and pleaded hysterically.

  A gun boomed and plaster exploded from the wall beside him. Burton looked around and saw Lushington with a pistol in his raised hand.

  “Don't shoot, you fool!” he shouted. “You'll hit the baronet!”

  He started up the stairs.

  Sir Alfred was dragged around a corner, his cries echoing through the house.

  Burton, Swinburne, and the others followed the fast-moving wraiths down the hallway leading to the rear of the mansion, through the morning room, into a small sitting room, then to a dressing room, and into the large bedchamber beyond.

  Burton stumbled into it just as Lady Mabella gripped Tichborne around the waist and disappeared with him through the closed window. His body passed through the glass without shattering it. A short scream of terror from outside ended abruptly.

  The two wraiths hovered before the glass. One of them turned, reached up, and raised its phantom top hat. The figures dissipated.

  Stepping to the window, Burton slid it up and looked out. About three feet below, swells of impenetrable white mist rose and fell like liquid.

  “Jankyn!” he bellowed, spinning on his heel. “Follow me! The patio! Quickly, man!”

  The physician, who'd been lagging behind the others and had only just entered the room, found himself being tugged along, back down the stairs, and through the house to its rear. The rest of them followed.

  “What's happening?” Lushington demanded. “Where's Sir Alfred?”

  “Come!” Burton called.

  They entered the hunting room and the king's agent pulled open the door to the patio. Dense mist enveloped the men as they stepped outside.

  “I can't see a thing!” said Jankyn.

  “Over here.”

  Burton knelt beside Sir Alfred Tichborne, who lay broken upon the pavement, blood pooling from the back of his head.

  Jankyn joined them.

  “He was thrown from the window,” Burton explained.

  Tichborne looked up at them, blinked, coughed, and whispered: “It hurts, Doctor Jankyn.”

  “Lie still,” the physician ordered.

  Sir Alfred's eyes held Burton's. “There's something—” He winced and groaned. “There's something I want—I want you to—do.”

  “What is it, Sir Alfred?”

  A tear slid from the baronet's eye. “No matter who claims this—this estate tomorrow, my brother—my real brother—he and I were the last Tichbornes. Don't allow anyone else to—to take the name.”

  He closed his eyes and emitted a deep sigh.

  Jankyn leaned over him. He looked back at Burton.

  “Sir Alfred has joined his mother.”

  Even though it was near enough midnight, Burton took a horse and trap and galloped to Alresford, where he hammered on the door of the post office until the inhabitants opened a window and demanded to know what in blue blazes he thought he was bally well doing. Displaying the credentials granted to him by the prime minister, he quickly gained access to the aviary and gave one of the parakeets a message for the attention of Scotland Yard.

  Early the next morning, an irregular ribbon of steam appeared high over the eastern horizon and arced down toward the estate. It was generated by a rotorchair, which landed with a thump and a bounce and skidded over the gravel on the carriageway in front of Tichborne House.

  A burly figure clambered out of it, pulled leather-bound goggles from his eyes, and was mounting the steps to the portico when the front door opened and Burton emerged.

  “Hello, Trounce. Glad to see you!”

  They shook hands.

  “Captain, please tell me the parakeet was joking!”

  “Joking?”

  “It told me murder had been done—by ghosts!”

  “As bizarre as it sounds, I'm afraid it's true; I saw it with my own eyes.”

  Trounce sighed and ran his fingers through his short, bristly hair.

  “Ye gods, how the devil am I supposed to report that to Commissioner Mayne?”

  “Come through to the parlour, I'll give you a full account.”

  Some little time later, Detective Inspector Trounce had been introduced to Colonel Lushington, Henry Hawkins, and Doctor Jankyn, and had taken a statement from each of them. He then examined Sir Alfred's body, which lay in a small bedroom, awaiting the arrival of the county coroner.

  Trounce settled in the smoking room with Burton and Swinburne.

  “It's plain enough that he was killed by the fall,” he muttered. “But how am I to begin the investigation? Ghosts, by Jove! It's absurd! First Brundleweed and now Tichborne!”

  “That's a very interesting point,” Burton said. “We can at least establish that the two crimes are linked—beyond the presence of a ghost, I mean.”

  “How so?”

  “We dismissed Brundleweed's spook as either imagination or a gas-induced hallucination. However, last night I witnessed ghosts pulling poor Sir Alfred straight through solid matter. It strikes me that if they can do that with a man, then they can certainly do it with diamonds.”

  “You mean to suggest that, some little time before Brunel's clockwork raiding party arrived, Brundleweed's ghost reached into his safe and pulled the François Garnier gems right out, replacing them with onyx stones, all without even opening the door?”

  “Yes. Exactly that.”

  “And was it the Tichborne ghost, Captain? This Lady Mabella?”

  “It would be fair to assume so. The motive appears to be the same; she has an interest in black diamonds. There's rumoured to be one, of the same variety as the Choir Stones, concealed somewhere on this estate. Lady Mabella has spent night after night knocking on the walls around the house. What does that suggest to you?”

  “That she's been searching for a secret hiding place?”

  “Precisely—although it's strange that she should knock on walls when she has the ability to walk right through them. That aside, we appear to have a diamond-hungry spook on our hands. I propose that our priority should be to discover the stone before she does; perhaps then we can find out why it's so important to her.”

  Trounce rubbed his hands over his face, his expression a picture of exasperation. “Fine! Fine! But it beats me why a diamond should be of any blessed use to a ghost!”

  “As I say, my friend, that is the crux of the matter.”

  “And why murder Sir Alfred?”

  “Perhaps to make way for the Claimant?”

  Algernon Swinburne clapped his hands together. “Dastardly!” he cried. “The witch and the imposter are hand-in-glove!”

  Trounce groaned. “I was the laughing stock of the Yard for decades because I believed in Spring Heeled Jack. Lord knows what mockery I'm letting myself in for now, but I suppose we'd better get on
with it. Where do we start?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “The kitchen? Why the kitchen?”

  “Of course!” Swinburne enthused, as realisation dawned. “Mrs. Picklethorpe's snoring!”

  Trounce looked from the king's agent to the diminutive poet and back again.

  “You know, I could easily grow to dislike you two. What in the devil's name are you jabbering about?”

  “We have Herbert Spencer the vagrant philosopher with us,” Burton explained. “He's staying down in the servants’ quarters. He complained that the cook snores, and that the sound reverberates through the walls. Perhaps it's because the walls are hollow.”

  “And there's a dreadful old family poem,” Swinburne added, “which says Consume if thou wouldst uncover. We think the diamond is hidden somewhere under the two wheat fields at the front of the house. Initially, we speculated that the doggerel was instructing whoever wanted to find it to get rid of the crop and dig, but perhaps there's an easier way.”

  “You mean a secret passage from the kitchen?” Trounce asked.

  “Or, more specifically, from one of the famous pantries,” Burton responded.

  “Gad!” Trounce exclaimed. Then again: “Gad!”

  “The Claimant is due here soon, so I suggest we have a poke around straightaway. I don't know how welcome we'll be in the manor once he sets foot in it.”

  Trounce jerked his head in agreement.

  They left the smoking room and sought out Colonel Lushington, who they found pacing in the study, next to the library.

  He looked up as they entered. “More news,” he announced. “Bad. Maybe good. Not sure. Could be either. Depends how it goes. Hawkins is of the opinion that it'll be a civil trial: Tichborne versus Lushington.”

  “Why so?” Burton asked.

  “The Claimant, under the name Roger Tichborne, will contest my right to act on the family's behalf. He'll try to have me removed from the house. Ejected. Out on my ear, so to speak. However, if he's not Roger Tichborne, we'll counter by suing for a criminal trial. Court. Jury. So forth. King versus Claimant.”

  “Good!” Trounce grunted. “That would bring Scotland Yard in on the matter.”

  Lushington agreed. “High time. I'd certainly like to know more about what the Claimant fellow got up to in Australia when he was calling himself Tomas Castro!”