The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man

  “English!”

  “Yes. So now we have to find out exactly who that man is.”

  “Roger Tichborne?”

  “It seems likely. You'll remember that he was raised by a French mother and had a French accent.”

  “Which the Claimant doesn't.”

  “Notably.”

  Honesty asked, “Who took him from the Santiago asylum?”

  “Ah, that's an interesting point.”

  “It is?”

  “He was removed by a rather well-known individual.”

  “Who?”

  “Nurse Florence Nightingale.”

  “The Lady of the Lamp!”

  “The very same. Which, considering I was told she's missing, intrigues me a great deal!”

  “Told by whom?”

  “Isambard Kingdom Brunel, at the time of the Brundleweed robbery.”

  “By gum! What's she up to? We must see that man in Bedlam! A police raid, perhaps?”

  “Good heavens, no! That would be far too heavy-handed! No, no, softly, softly, catchee monkey. Palmerston's men, Burke and Hare, are preparing false papers. In a couple of days, they and I will enter the asylum in the guise of government inspectors.”

  Honesty grunted and sucked thoughtfully at his pipe.

  Burton pulled a cord at the side of the fireplace. He and his guest sat in contemplative silence until Mrs. Angell answered the summons. Burton requested a pot of coffee. As the old lady left, he turned back to the Yard man and said: “So Commissioner Mayne sent you to Australia to find out more about our faux aristocrat? How went it?”

  “Went well. I took Commander Krishnamurthy. Remember him? Fine fellow. Head of Flying Squad now!”

  “Yes, so I've heard. What did you two find down there?”

  Honesty bent and placed his pipe on the hearth. He licked his lips, interlaced his fingers, and rested his hands in his lap. He eschewed long sentences, but he was now in a position where they might be necessary, and he needed to prepare himself.

  The study door creaked open and footsteps padded across the room.

  “Hello, Fidget,” Burton muttered. He reached down to fondle his basset hound's ears. “I'm afraid you'll have to wait for your walk.”

  The dog sat at his feet and regarded the man opposite.

  “In Wagga Wagga,” Honesty began, “no one has heard of Tomas Castro. No one recognised the face in the daguerreotype. They did speak, however, of a man named Arthur Orton, a local butcher. Tremendously fat. Had an insatiable appetite for raw meat. Mysteriously disappeared.”

  “When?”

  “Four weeks before the Claimant arrived in Paris.”

  “Ah!”

  “Orton learned his skill as a butcher in London. He originally hailed from Wapping. Upon my return, I found the family. Interviewed his sisters. They say he moved to Australia some fifteen years ago. Never heard of again. I showed them the daguerreotype. They say it's not him.”

  The study door swung open and Mrs. Angell entered with the coffee. She poured them each a cup.

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Detective Inspector Honesty. The housekeeper smiled. There came an impatient hammering at the front door.

  “I'll get it,” she said, and departed.

  “I have the distinct impression, Inspector,” said Burton, “that a very tangled web has been woven.”

  “I should say so. Who's assaulting your door?”

  “I'd recognise that knock anywhere. It's our mutual friend William Trounce.”

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs and the door was flung open. Trounce stamped in, ruddy-faced and puffing. He banged his bowler hat onto a desk.

  “He's been released on bail!” he yelled. “Ah! Honesty! There you are! Hallo, Burton! Long time no see! The Claimant was taken to the Old Bailey at nine o'clock this morning and walked out a free man thirty minutes later. There was a crowd of cheering idiots to greet him. How the blazes has that fat monstrosity garnered so much support these past weeks, eh? Tell me that, Captain!”

  He dragged an armchair over to them and plonked himself into it, rubbed his short hair vigorously, then punched one hand into the other.

  “Blast it!” he shouted.

  “Admiral Lord Nelson,” Burton said to his valet, “would you fetch a cup for Detective Inspector Trounce, please?”

  The clockwork man saluted, walked to the door, and left the room.

  “I'll be blowed!” Honesty exclaimed. “Thought it was a suit of armour!”

  Burton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don't know, Trounce, old man,” he said. “I don't know. But you're absolutely right—the most remarkable aspect of this case is that, from the very start, the Claimant has gained supporters left, right, and centre. Judging by what I've seen so far, I'd say he radiates some sort of powerful mesmeric influence, though why it affects some and not others is quite a mystery.”

  Burton remembered the people he'd seen in court rubbing their heads as if experiencing discomfort; Colonel Lushington's sudden headache when the Claimant arrived at Tichborne House; and Edwin Brundleweed's strange migraine.

  It was the black diamonds, of course. Something was emanating from them. Sir Charles Babbage had said they could store and transmit the electrical fields generated by a human brain. All the evidence suggested they could influence a human brain as well.

  “Your average man in the street seems under the impression that there's a conspiracy against the Claimant,” Trounce said. “He's become a hero to the working classes.”

  “An aristocrat who laboured as a butcher,” Honesty commented. “They like that.”

  Trounce grunted his agreement.

  Admiral Lord Nelson entered with a cup in his hand.

  “Pour Detective Inspector Trounce a coffee, would you?” Burton said.

  “Good lord!” Honesty muttered as the clockwork man obeyed.

  Strident screams and cries reached them from the street below.

  “That sounds like young Swinburne,” Trounce observed.

  “Arguing with a cabbie, I'll wager,” Burton agreed. “He's convinced that any cab ride, whatever the distance, costs a shilling, and he'll argue until he's blue in the face if the cabbie disagrees!”

  He smiled. It had been a while since he'd seen his diminutive and highly eccentric assistant, and he'd missed him.

  A few minutes later the doorbell jangled and a shout of, “Hallo, sweet angel!” floated up from the hall below. Footsteps sounded, the study door opened, and Mrs. Angell announced: “The eleven-thirty express has just pulled in at platform three, Sir Richard. Will there be much more traffic passing through the station this morning, or can I go and bathe my aching corns?”

  “Send him in, Mother.” Burton chuckled. “And consider the service suspended until further notice!”

  As the landlady turned to leave, Swinburne bounded past her into the room.

  “Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!” he cried. “Greetings one and all! Come on! Up and at ’em! Shake a leg! Hats on heads! Let's be off! We don't want to miss it!”

  Burton crossed to his friend, shook his hand, slapped his back, and said: “Hello, Algy! Off where? Miss what?”

  “I'm delighted to see you too, Richard, but a little less power to your welcome, if you don't mind! Every time you pat my back, I fear bones will break. By George, you look tanned! Was South America fun?”

  “Hardly that.”

  “Hallo, Pouncer! Hallo, Honesty! How are London's crooks these days?”

  “Busy,” Honesty answered.

  “Unusually so,” added Trounce, frowning at Swinburne's use of his nickname.

  “Maybe they think the steam hides their many sins! Move yourselves! Let's be off!”

  “Blast it, Algy!” Burton growled. “Where to? And have you been drinking?”

  “To see Kenealy and his corpulent client. They're about to perform at Speakers’ Corner! Yes, I have. Quite frankly, I'm sloshed!”

  “Speakers’ Corner?” Trounce cried. “The Claimant's on
ly just been freed from Newgate!”

  “I know! But the streets are abuzz with it; he'll be lecturing the heaving throng within the hour! And I, for one, don't want the throng to heave without me!”

  “I'm with you, my boy!” Trounce enthused.

  Burton took a leash from the hatstand and clipped it to Fidget's collar. Jackets were buttoned, hats were placed on heads, canes were retrieved, and the four men and dog hurried out of the house into the haze of Montagu Place.

  “Let's leg it down Gloucester,” Swinburne suggested. “We'll be there in five minutes.”

  They strolled eastward, and, as they approached the corner, Mr. Grub's barrow came into view.

  Burton touched the brim of his topper in greeting.

  “Morning, Mr. Grub! How's business?”

  “What's it to do with you?” came the snarled reply.

  Burton halted and looked at the man in astonishment.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, do yer? Well, you ain't gettin’ it, you blasted snob!”

  “I say!” Swinburne gasped.

  Detective Inspector Honesty turned toward the vendor and stuck out his chest. “Better watch your manners!” he said. “Respect your betters!”

  “Betters, is it? Ha! You ain't no better than nuffink, an’ that's a fact!”

  “Why, what on earth has got into you, Mr. Grub?” asked Burton, and Trounce added: “Come, come, dear fellow. Surely that's no way to talk!”

  “Why don'tcha all clear off, hey?” Grub responded.

  “Is something troubling you?” Burton enquired. “Has something happened?”

  “All that's bleedin’ well ’appened is that you're a-standin’ on me patch gettin’ in the way of them honest workin’ folks what wants to buy cockles an’ whelks.”

  “Well, what say I buy a bag?” Swinburne suggested. “I like my cockles with a sprinkling of vinegar, if you please.” He hiccupped.

  “I don't please, an’ you can keep yer bloomin’ money, you pipsqueak! Get away from ’ere! Go on! Skedaddle, the lot o’ yer!”

  The end of a tremendously long, thin leg thumped onto the road beside them as a harvestman of the order Phalangium opilio passed. The colossal arachnid—called by some a “daddy-long-legs”—was a one-man delivery vehicle. The carapace of its small oval body, which bobbed along twenty feet in the air as the eight elongated legs propelled it forward, had been carved into a bowl-shaped driver's seat, behind which a steam engine chugged. Beneath the body, a wooden crate dangled, held by netting.

  The vehicle's twin funnels pumped a thick plume of steam into the air, and a tendril of the vapour curled down and rolled over the men, momentarily obscuring Mr. Grub. When he came back into view, he was holding his hand to his forehead and his face was twisted with pain.

  “Why don't you all bugger off!” he mumbled as the bizarre vehicle vanished around a corner.

  “I'm placing you under arrest for—” began Detective Inspector Honesty.

  “No,” Burton interrupted, gripping the smaller man's upper arm. “Leave him, there's a good chap. Let's move on.”

  “But—”

  “Come!”

  Burton guided the Yard man away, followed by Swinburne and Trounce. The latter looked back at the street vendor in puzzlement.

  “By Jove! What extraordinary rudeness!” he muttered.

  “And entirely out of character,” Burton observed. “Perhaps he's having trouble at home.”

  “Should be arrested!” Honesty grumbled. “Insulting a police officer.”

  “There are bigger fish to fry,” Burton noted.

  They walked on down Gloucester Place until the northeastern corner of Hyde Park came into view. A big crowd had gathered there, comprised almost entirely of working-class men, with rolled-up shirtsleeves, suspenders, and cloth caps. A few top-hatted gents were hovering at the outer edges of the gathering. Dr. Kenealy and the Claimant could be seen near a podium. They were encircled by a number of foppishly dressed individuals—obviously Rakes—who appeared to be acting as bodyguards.

  “What a crowd!” Trounce observed as they pushed their way into the mob.

  “All come to goggle at the freak!” Swinburne said.

  A man with pocked skin and bad teeth leaned close and said: “He ain't no bloomin’ freak, mister. He's an haristocrat what's been cheated outa what's rightfully ‘is by the blasted lawyers!”

  “My good sir!” the poet protested.

  “Go about your business,” Trounce commanded.

  The man sneered nastily, turned his back, and hobbled away, swearing under his breath.

  They stood and waited.

  Ten minutes later, Burton asked, “Is it my imagination or are we on the receiving end of some rather hostile glances?”

  “Shhh!” Swinburne responded. “The Claimant's about to speak!” He pulled a silver flask from his jacket pocket and swigged from it.

  The grossly obese giant had heaved himself up onto the podium. The crowd spontaneously broke into song:

  “I've seen a great deal of gaiety throughout my noisy life,

  With all my grand accomplishments I ne'er could get a wife,

  The thing I most excel in is the P. R. F. G. game,

  A-noise all night, in bed all day, and swimming in Champagne!”

  Swinburne laughed, and in a loud, high-pitched voice, joined in with the chorus:

  “For Champagne Charlie is my name;

  Champagne Charlie is my name,

  Good for any game at night, my boys;

  Good for any game at night, my boys,

  Champagne Charlie is my name;

  Champagne Charlie is my name,

  Good for any game at night, boys;

  Who'll come and join me in a spree?”

  “Be quiet, you idiot—you're attracting attention!” Burton hissed.

  Dr. Kenealy climbed up beside his client and waved for the crowd to quiet down.

  Reluctantly, it did so.

  “I'd like to introduce to you,” he began, in a loud voice, “a man who is well acquainted with this country's aristocratic families, due to the fact that he is himself one of their number.”

  “Boo!” hooted someone close to Burton and his colleagues.

  “In fact,” Kenealy continued, “he is actually a distant cousin of my client!”

  “Hurrah!” yelled the man who'd just booed.

  “Please spare a little of your time for Mr. Anthony Biddulph!”

  Kenealy stepped down and a short, skinny man sporting a mustache and bushy side whiskers took his place at the Claimant's side.

  “My friends,” Biddulph boomed, in a surprisingly powerful tone, “I could point out several English gentlemen who would not pass muster as English gentlemen any better—” he placed a hand on the Claimant's forearm “—than this man here does.”

  Laughter and jeers from the crowd.

  “For no matter the circumstances of their birth, they are apparently no better than farmers, and I would place Tichborne among that class.”

  “Cor blimey! You ain't suggestin’ that aristos are stupid, are yer?” someone shouted.

  The crowd cheered.

  “I refer to the accusations that have been levelled at this man which suggest he can't be who he says he is because he seems uneducated. Well, let me tell you, I have heard of persons called English gentlemen who were so illiterate in conversations that you would take them to be nothing better than pig-jobbers!”

  “There ain't nuffink wrong wiv a pig-jobber!” cried a voice. “I should know, I be one meself—an’ I hain't hilliterate neither!”

  More laughter.

  “Quite so!” Biddulph cried. “And this man is unique in his class in that he knows what it means to earn his daily crust!”

  Long enthusiastic cheers erupted.

  Biddulph stepped down.

  “Tichbooooorne,” the Claimant rumbled, grinning vacantly. A string of drool swung from his lower lip.

  Kenealy reappeared
beside him. “You have all heard our enemies’ protestations!” he cried. “You all know that they refuse to believe that this man is Sir Roger Tichborne.”

  “It's a conspiracy!” someone shouted.

  “Precisely!” Kenealy agreed. “Precisely! I have here a former Carabineer who served at my client's side; slept in the same barracks; spent day after day in his company! Spare a moment, if you will, for Mr. James M'Cann!”

  He removed himself from the podium again and was replaced by a burly individual, who, in a melodramatic tone, announced: “There's no doubt in my mind that the man who stands at my side, though rather stouter than previous—”

  Loud guffaws all around.

  “—is undoubtedly Roger Tichborne, or ‘Frenchy,’ as we used to call him. I recognised him the instant I saw him by his forehead, head, and ears.”

  More laughter, cheers, and jeers.

  “His ears I knew well by seeing him in bed every morning for two years.”

  “Stuck out from under the blankets, did they?” came a distant voice.

  Burton stood on tiptoe and looked back. The crowd had more than trebled in size since he and his friends had arrived.

  “There is nothing extraordinarily particular about the ears that I know of,” M'Cann answered. “Only I knew ’em. I don't know if I could have recognised him from his ears if I had seen nothing else.”

  A fresh outburst of raucous laughter rippled through the crowd. Cloth caps were thrown into the air.

  Steam billowed over the gathering, rolling from east to west. The platform was momentarily obscured, and when Burton saw it clearly again, M'Cann had departed and Edward Kenealy was silencing the vast audience.

  “Sir Roger Tichborne will now address you directly,” he proclaimed.

  This was greeted by more cheering, which quickly gave way to an expectant silence.

  The Claimant grinned, and drawled, “Cruelly persecuted is what I am. Yesss. There is but—one course I can—seeee, and that is to—to—to adopt the suggestion so many have made to me. Thus, I must a-appeal to you—the British public—for funds for my—my—my defence. Yesss. I appeal to you to help defend the weak against—against—against the strong.”