The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man

  Without hesitation, Burton shot cactus spines into the pedlar's neck and winced at the sound the man's skull made as it hit the road.

  “We should proceed with greater haste,” he advised Palmerston's men. “Can you manage?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Hare replied. “Though Mr. Burke seems to be uncon—Look out!”

  Burton gasped and stepped back as a wraith materialised right in front of him. He saw the figure clearly. It was dressed in a long frock coat, wore a top hat, and its mouth was hidden behind a soup-strainer mustache. Then it dissolved and blew away, nothing but a ribbon of dirty particles.

  “What are those things?” Hare whispered.

  “I don't know, but each time I see one it appears a little more solid, more opaque. I think they're gaining in strength, and they're inciting this violence.”

  They pressed on and reached Saint George's Circus. A man ran out of a shop, stopped in front of them, and raised an antiquated blunderbuss.

  “Die for Tichborne, you posh sods!” he shouted. He pulled the trigger and the weapon exploded in his face, blowing off his right ear.

  “Christ!” he screamed. “My bloody head!”

  Burton shot him and the man crumpled.

  The rumble of approaching wheels came out of the smoke.

  “Let that be an empty cab!” Burton pleaded.

  It was.

  A steam-horse erupted from the fumes, pelting along at full speed, its crankshafts clanking. It was dragging behind it an old-fashioned landau, engulfed in flames. The vehicle careened past them, bounced onto the pavement, and ran smack into the front of a tavern. Glass burst noisily and an angry clamour of voices came from within the building. The vehicle's boiler detonated, hot metal flying in all directions. The front of the building collapsed into the street, sending bricks, glass, and masonry spinning into the air.

  Gregory Hare yelled in pain.

  Burton turned and saw that a chunk of metal had embedded itself in his colleague's left arm. He slipped under the semiconscious Burke's shoulder to keep him upright and gave a steadying hand to the other man.

  “Oof!” Hare grunted. “This isn't good! Ouch! Ouch! Not good at all, Captain!”

  The king's agent looked at the wound.

  “Wait,” he snapped.

  He lowered the two men to the ground then shrugged out of his jacket, dropped it, gripped the sleeve of his shirt, and ripped it off.

  “How many tourniquets am I to tie today, hey, Hare? Must you and Burke do everything together? You both have wounds in exactly the same blessed place!”

  “I apologise, sir,” Hare groaned. “A terrible inconvenience. Is it serious?”

  “Three men, two out of action, one weapon between them, in the midst of a riot? Yes, I should judge that to be fairly serious. As for the wound, it would be as severe as Mr. Burke's were it not for the fact that your biceps are the size of thigh muscles. The bone is intact.”

  “As I say, sir, I'm terribly sorry.”

  “Don't be a fool,” Burton growled, tugging the tourniquet tight. “You hardly leaped into the path of that projectile.”

  In the distance, the police announced: “Get off the streets. Remain inside.”

  Tongues of flame licked from the ruined tavern. Screams came from within.

  Burton retrieved his jacket and put it back on. “Mr. Burke is out cold. Stay with him. Hold this.” He pushed the cactus gun into Hare's hand. “I'll be back in a jiffy.”

  He dived into the murk. Something had caught his eye moments ago. It had possibilities.

  “We have to keep moving, Captain!” Hare called after him.

  Burton ran back the way they'd come until he reached the edge of the square. He peered to his right, through the swirling haze.

  It was still there.

  He returned to Burke and Hare.

  “There's an abandoned omnipede,” he reported, taking back the pistol. “I suggest we hijack the blighter. It'll get us over Waterloo Bridge in no time.”

  “You can drive the contraption?” Hare asked.

  “I can try. I don't think the controls are much different from those on a rotorchair. Come on.”

  He helped Hare with Burke, dragging him along until they reached the giant mechanised millipede. It was slumped across the road, empty but for the driver, whose corpse hung over the edge of the control seat.

  “Looks like he was bludgeoned,” Hare muttered.

  They hauled Burke up the steps in the side of the vehicle's carapace and laid him on a bench. He stirred and moaned.

  “Help me to shift the driver,” Burton said. “Try not to use your injured arm—I don't want you bleeding any more than you already are.”

  “Me neither, Sir Richard.”

  They descended and moved to what used to be the head of the gigantic insect. As they dragged the dead body down and across to the side of the road, Hare noted that there weren't many people about. “It seems like a wave of rioters has come and gone through this part of town,” he ruminated. “I wonder where they are now? Do you think they're still at it, Captain?”

  “From the various cries and screams we're hearing, it appears that passions are still running high,” Burton replied. “But whether the riot is dying down or has just moved past this district remains to be seen. There were certainly a fair few unfortunates in that tavern when the landau hit it.”

  He suddenly pointed the pistol at the other man and pressed the trigger. With a soft phut! seven spines flew past Hare's ear and embedded themselves in the throat of the woman who'd loomed out of the smoke behind him. The length of pipe she held poised to crack down onto his head fell from numb fingers and clanged onto the road. She dropped on top of it.

  “Much obliged,” said Hare.

  “Take the cactus gun again. I'll drive. You shoot.”

  Hare grasped the proffered weapon and clambered back onto the omnipede. He stood by the bench upon which Burke lay and braced himself against the canopy, clamping his injured arm against his side, holding the spine-shooter ready.

  Burton slipped into the driver's seat and examined the controls. A gauge indicated that the furnace was still burning and another that boiler pressure was high. He settled his feet onto a plate which operated in the same way as the one in his rotorchair: press it forward with the toes to accelerate and backward with the heels to slow and brake. There were two levers to facilitate steering.

  “Simple enough,” he breathed. “Let's be off.”

  He pushed gently on the footplate. The insect shuddered and rattled, steam whistling from the vents between its many legs. It jerked ahead, stopped, the engines spluttered, snarled, and the vehicle began to rumble forward.

  Burton struggled with the controls. The machine was so long that, as he exited the square and guided it onto Waterloo Road, its middle strayed onto the pavement and scraped against the corner of a bakery, grinding horribly on the brickwork and causing red dust to plume into the already dense atmosphere.

  Some of the millipede's legs cracked and snapped against the building. The shop's display window shattered.

  “Careful! Careful!” Hare shouted.

  Burton jammed down his heels.

  “Steer out into the centre of the street, else we'll lose all the limbs along this side!”

  “Sorry,” the king's agent mumbled. He looked back along the length of the vehicle, trying to judge distances. “Whose bloody stupid idea was it to turn an insect into a confounded ‘bus?” he growled.

  A yank at the right-hand lever followed by a slow pull back on the left sent the machine away from the corner and out into the middle of the road.

  He accelerated along the thoroughfare, fighting to maintain control as the omnipede snaked wildly from side to side, hurtling into abandoned carts, overturned braziers, and all manner of debris, smashing everything aside or crushing it flat beneath its numerous short, powerful legs.

  Burton tried to slow it down—he could barely see where he was going—but the footplate was far
too responsive and his clumsy efforts caused a jolting motion that had his teeth clicking together and Hare yelling at him.

  “Stop or go, if you please, Captain, but for pity's sake try not to do both at once!”

  The king's agent glanced again at the gauges.

  Perhaps if-—

  He reached to a small wheel beside the pressure indicator and turned it counterclockwise. Immediately, all along the great length of the omnibus, plumes of steam screamed out of the vents.

  The vehicle stabilised.

  “The pressure was too high!” he called. “I've got her in hand now!”

  Phut! Phut! Phut!

  He looked back.

  Gregory Hare was shooting at a brougham that had emerged from the swirling smoke and was racing alongside, its steam-horse panting, its driver hollering incoherently. A man was hanging loosely out of the passenger cabin, his arms dangling, cactus spines projecting from the side of his head. Behind him, using him as cover, another man was brandishing a pair of pistols and taking potshots at Hare.

  “Shoot the blessed driver!” Burton yelled.

  “I'm trying! Perhaps you could pilot this contraption a little more steadily?”

  “God-damned stupid machine!” ground out Burton through gritted teeth. “Why in the name of all that's holy did I ever leave Africa?”

  He wrenched at the left steering lever, sending the omnipede thundering around a motionless and badly dented litter-crab.

  A bullet whined past his ear.

  “Lions I can bloody well cope with. Mosquitoes I can bloody well cope with. Even traitorous bloody partners, I can bloody well cope with. But giant steam-operated insects I can quite—”

  The ’bus slammed into a beer wagon, sending splintered wood exploding outward.

  “—happily—”

  The vehicle bucked and shook as it trampled over the shattered cart.

  “—do without!”

  “I'm hit!” Hare cried.

  Burton looked back and saw that Palmerston's man had slumped down, clutching his hip, his wide mouth contorted with pain.

  The brougham drew closer to the head of the racing insect.

  “Stupid stuck-up ponce!” bawled the driver. “You think you can cheat Tichborne?”

  Bullets thudded into the carapace at Burton's side.

  The stench of the Thames wafted over the king's agent as the omnipede streaked past empty tollbooths and out onto Waterloo Bridge. He caught a glimpse of Big Ben through the stifling atmosphere. Orange light reflected from the side of the tower. The Houses of Parliament were burning.

  A shot clipped his ear.

  “Upper-class pig bastard!”

  “Snooty pisspot!” yelled the brougham's passenger. “Tichborne forever!”

  “You two are worse than parakeets,” Burton shouted. “And I've had quite enough of it!”

  He tugged at the right steering lever, sending the omnibus swerving sideways until it collided with the pursuers. The driver shrieked as his vehicle was rammed into the bridge's parapet.

  “Sweet Jesus!” screamed the man inside the cabin as it crunched against the stone barrier. With shocking rapidity, the entire box suddenly flew to pieces and was thrown into the air. The steam-horse overturned and the disintegrating brougham somersaulted over it, smashed against the railing, and disappeared over the side of the bridge.

  “There you are, gents,” Burton muttered. “A little river water for you. Wash your mouths out.” He called over his shoulder: “Are you all right, Hare?”

  “Just keep going, Captain! I seem to be immobilised but I daresay I'll live!”

  A group of wraiths hove into view at the side of the bridge then wafted away.

  A man walked into the path of the omnipede. He was carrying the headless corpse of a woman slung over his shoulder. As Burton jammed his heels down, the man looked up and grinned. Blood oozed from the corners of his mouth.

  The millipede hit him square on and he vanished beneath its stampeding legs.

  “Idiot!” Burton spat.

  The machine ran on, slowed to a scuttle, and came to a stop. The explorer hoisted himself out and moved back to Hare.

  “I just caught sight of a police cordon at the end of the bridge. It looks like they've blocked off the Strand. We can get help.”

  Damien Burke groaned and his eyes fluttered open. “You appear to be injured, Mr. Hare,” he mumbled.

  “I am, Mr. Burke. As are you. Don't worry, we haven't far to go.”

  He looked at Burton, held out the spine-shooter, and said: “Your gun, Captain.”

  “No, you keep hold of it while I run ahead.”

  “But—”

  The king's agent jumped to the ground, scooped up a sharp-ended length of wood, and stalked forward, holding it like a spear, his eyes stinging as particles of ash and soot drifted into them.

  “Oy! You there!” came a shout. “Go home! Get off the streets or you'll find yourself under arrest!”

  “Police?” Burton called.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Captain Sir Richard Burton.”

  “The Livingstone chap? You're joking!”

  “I'm perfectly serious, Constable, and please don't ever refer to me as ‘the Livingstone chap’ again!”

  A uniformed man emerged from the smoke. “Sorry, sir. No offence intended. And it's sergeant, actually. There's a police cordon behind me. I'm afraid I can't allow you to pass.”

  Burton threw his makeshift weapon aside, dug a hand into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. From it, he took a card which, approaching the policeman, he held out for inspection.

  The sergeant examined it. “Stone the crows!” he exclaimed. “You're rather important!”

  “It would seem so,” responded Burton dryly. “I have two injured men with me, Sergeant—?”

  “Slaughter, sir.”

  “Slaughter? Really? How grimly appropriate.”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant Sidney Slaughter at your service.”

  “My colleagues are Lord Palmerston's men and they need to get to Whitehall without delay. Can you rustle up an escort?”

  “Certainly. Are they back there?”

  “Yes. In an omnipede.”

  “I'll give you a hand with them. We'll get them to the tollbooths—they mark the edge of the cordon—then I'll arrange transportation.”

  “Thank you.”

  They hurried back to the giant insect where they found Damien Burke propped weakly against one of its canopies, brandishing the spine-shooter.

  “Thank goodness, Captain,” he gasped. “I appear to have regained my wits just as Mr. Hare lost his. However, I fear I may revisit oblivion at any moment. I'm in quite dreadful pain.”

  Burton took the gun from him and helped him down to the road.

  “This is Slaughter,” he said.

  “I wouldn't go that far, Captain.”

  “The sergeant. It's his name.”

  “Oh dear.”

  The policeman slipped his shoulder under Burke's healthy arm. “Don't worry, I've got a hold of you. Let's be off.”

  They staggered away, while Burton climbed onto the omnipede and, employing his great strength, lifted the prone form of Gregory Hare from the floor. He dragged him down the steps then followed after the policeman.

  A couple of minutes later there came a hail.

  “Hey! Sergeant! Over here! I say! Is that you, Captain Burton?”

  “Yes, who's that? Come and give me a hand!”

  The haze parted as Constable Bhatti stepped out of it.

  “Ah! Hallo there!” Burton said.

  “Hello, Captain. Strewth! Who're these two?”

  “Palmerston's men.”

  Slaughter lowered Burke and said to Burton: “Lay your man against the booth here.” He called to a nearby colleague: “Constable Peters, dash off and fetch a carriage, would you?” Then he turned to Burke: “I'll run you both to a hospital.”

  “No,” Burke responded hoarsely. “We need to g
et to Whitehall. I'll give you the address.”

  “But you need your wounds seen to, man!”

  “We'll get medical assistance there. Please, do as I say.”

  Slaughter shrugged. “Very well, sir.”

  Constable Bhatti muttered, in a low voice: “Captain, I saw Mr. Swinburne a little while ago and managed to snatch a quick word with him. He was with Herbert Spencer—and disguised as an urchin. They were on the trail of a fellow named Doyle.”

  “How long ago? Any idea where they were headed?”

  “Perhaps an hour, and to the Cheshire Cheese tavern on Fleet Street.”

  “Good. Maybe they're still there.”

  “If you're going to follow, I recommend you take the same route they did—along the Embankment and up Farringdon Street. It's a little less direct but whatever you do, don't try to pass through the Strand. There are monsters running rampant and no one who's gone in has come out again.”

  “Monsters? What do you mean?”

  “I don't know what they are. One has been glimpsed through the smoke. Huge, apparently. We tried to do a recce by air but our rotorchairs dropped like stones. We lost four men. Then we tried to fly swans over the area but they panicked as soon as they got near and flapped off in the other direction, taking their drivers with them. Only our runners and parakeets can get in and out, but, of course, that's not doing us much good. Now we're waiting until morning before we try to clear the area. By the way, what's wrong with Mr. Swinburne?”

  “Wrong? What do you mean?”

  “He seems, um—how shall I put it?—even more incomprehensible than usual.”

  “Ah. Yes. My fault. I mesmerised him. I'm sure the side effects will wear off in due course.”

  “Mesmerised! Why?”

  “I believe this rioting is being instigated by some sort of mediumistic transmission. I was trying to shield him against it.”

  “Phew!” Bhatti exclaimed. “I wish you'd stay and give my colleagues the same treatment. We've had men going off half-cocked about Roger Tichborne, men running into the Strand and not returning, men collapsing with headaches—it's been bloody mayhem!”