The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man

  Krishnamurthy crawled forward, moaning with the effort. He'd almost reached Kenealy when the lawyer rolled over, turned, and looked up. Blood was streaming down his face from a wound in his forehead. He jerked a hand toward the policeman. Blue flame grew around his fingers.

  “None of that!” the Flying Squad man groaned, and whacked his truncheon down onto the hand.

  Kenealy screamed as his finger bones crunched.

  Krishnamurthy slumped forward and passed out.

  “What's the meaning of this!” demanded a voice from the doorway. It was Mrs. Picklethorpe, resplendent in her nightgown and hair curlers. A pan, launched by Bogle, hit her square between the eyes. She toppled back against the corridor wall and slid to the floor.

  Swinburne flung a full bottle of wine at Bogle and whooped with satisfaction as it bounced off the Jamaican's head and exploded against a cupboard behind him. The butler swayed and buckled, dropping onto Kenealy.

  The lawyer pushed his uninjured hand out in Swinburne's direction.

  “I'll kill you!” he snarled.

  Spencer bounded across the room and sent a thick hardbound cookery book thudding down onto Kenealy's head, knocking him cold. The heavy volume fell open at the title page: Miss Mayson's Book of Household Management.

  “Well, I'll be blowed!” Herbert muttered. He bent and retrieved the volume then sent it slapping into the side of Waite's head. The Rake collapsed, out for the count.

  Jankyn sat up and moaned. He held both his hands flat against his left side. Blood leaked between his fingers.

  “Bastards!” he said huskily.

  “You're hardly in a position to insult us,” Swinburne observed. “I assume Guilfoyle shot you?”

  Spencer knelt and helped the recovering Krishnamurthy to his feet.

  “Yes,” Jankyn groaned. “He tried to take Burton from us. Kenealy killed him but the man's shotgun went off as he died. The only working gun on the whole bloody estate, and I have to get it!”

  “What was that lightning Kenealy fired from his hand?”

  “Get me to a hospital. I'm bleeding to death.”

  “Answer my questions and I'll consider it,” the poet answered, and Spencer had never heard the little man sound so grim.

  “It's etheric energy. Kenealy has a talent for channelling it, which the mistress has enhanced.”

  “The mistress? Who's she?

  “She's the leader of—Ah! It hurts! I need treatment, man!”

  “The leader of the Rakes? I know. And she's a Russian. But what's her name?”

  “I haven't the foggiest, I swear! Enough! Enough! Look at this blood! Help me, damn it!”

  “Is Burton alive?” Swinburne demanded.

  “Possibly. He's in the centre of the labyrinth.”

  “How many are in there, guarding him?”

  “None.”

  “You're lying.”

  “I'm not.”

  “If that's the way you want to play it, fine. Physician, heal thyself, and if you bleed to death, I'll not mind one little bit, you damned blackguard.”

  “All right! All right! There's just one man, I swear. His name is Smithers. He and Waite took Burton from a séance to Paddington Station. They were—” he groaned and whimpered, then continued in a whisper “—they were joined by Kenealy there and all rode a train to Winchester. Bogle met them at the station with a carriage, but just outside Alresford the steam-horse broke down. They had to continue on foot, dragging Burton between them. As they crossed the grounds, Guilfoyle interfered and paid the price. Please, get me to the doctor now. I don't want to die.”

  Krishnamurthy, who was being supported by Herbert Spencer, swore vociferously. “Neither did Sam Hoare, but he's lying there dead, you swine!”

  Jankyn fell onto his side on the table and said faintly: “It wasn't me. Kenealy killed him.”

  “Gentlemen,” Krishnamurthy said hoarsely, “if you'd be so kind as to help me bind and gag these three rogues—“he indicated the unconscious Kenealy, Bogle, and Waite”—I'll then remain here and see what I can do for the cook. Maybe, if the mood takes me, I'll attend to Jankyn, too. On the other hand, I might just let him die like the diseased dog he is.”

  “Will you be all right? You look done in,” Swinburne said.

  The commander was, indeed, in a bad way. There was blood oozing from his eyes, nose, and ears, and he was trembling uncontrollably.

  “I'm afraid I'm not much up to running through tunnels at present but I'll be fine. I'll rest here once these bounders are secured, then I'll rustle up the local constabulary to sort this mess out while you get your man back to London.”

  It took a few minutes to tie the men's hands and feet, after which Swinburne and the vagrant philosopher entered the pantry containing the door to the labyrinth. Fidget looked into the kitchen, saw that the violence had ended, and scampered after them.

  They stepped into the tunnel and took off along it, passing under the house, beneath the carriageway, and toward the Crawls. The passages were well lit and nothing occurred to hamper their progress through the folding-back-on-itself spiral until they were close to the central chamber, when Swinburne, who was barrelling along as fast as his short legs would allow, skidded around one of the turns and ran slap bang into the Rake, Smithers, who'd been walking in the other direction. The two men went down in a tangle and started to punch, kick, and wrestle frantically until Spencer caught up with them. The philosopher calmly bent, grasped a handful of Smithers's hair, lifted the man's head, and slammed it hard against the stone floor. The Rake's arms flopped down and he lay still.

  “Let's pull him along with us to the central chamber,” Swinburne panted.

  They took an ankle each and dragged the prone form the last few yards until they exited the tunnel into the inner room.

  “Is that you, um—um—um?” came a familiar voice.

  “Algernon Swinburne. Hello, Colonel.”

  “Bally good show! That is to say, I'm very pleased to see you.”

  Lushington was sitting against the wall, hands bound behind his back, looking bedraggled, with his extravagant side whiskers drooping miserably.

  “Burton's a goner, I fear,” he announced, nodding toward the small waterfall. “Lost his mind, the poor chap.”

  The king's agent was slumped lifelessly in the water channel with his arms spread wide, wrists shackled to the wall on either side of the falling stream. Flowing out of the slot above, the hot water was descending straight down onto his head.

  Swinburne let loose a shriek of rage and bounded across to his friend.

  “Herbert, help me unbolt these bloody manacles!”

  While he and the philosopher got to work, Lushington gave an account of himself.

  “Not entirely certain how I came to be here, to be frank. These past months have been rather hazy. Bit of a nightmare, really. Was I supporting that fat fake? Rather think I was. Couldn't help myself. Every time he was anywhere near me, I was convinced he was Sir Roger. By Gad, I even spoke for the bounder in court! Didn't come to my senses, regain my wits, start to think straight, until I found myself being held captive here, wherever here is.”

  “You're under the Crawls,” Swinburne revealed.

  “Am I, indeed? Am I? Closer to home than I thought, then! Barely seen a soul for—how long? Days? Weeks?—apart from that scoundrel Bogle, who's been keeping me fed, and Kenealy, damn him for the rogue he is.”

  “That's got it, lad,” Spencer muttered, yanking the manacles off Burton's wrists. He and Swinburne pulled the limp explorer across the floor, away from the water, and laid him down. His eyes opened and rolled aimlessly. He mumbled something. The poet bent closer.

  “What was that, Richard?”

  “Al-Masloub,” Burton whispered.

  “What?”

  “Al-Masloub.”

  “What's he sayin’?” Spencer asked.

  “Something in Arabic. Al-Masloub,” Swinburne replied.

  “What's a bloomin’ Al-
Masloub?”

  “I don't know, Herbert.”

  “He's been mumbling it over and over,” Lushington revealed. “Hasn't said another blessed word. Place in Arabia, perhaps?”

  Spencer crossed to the colonel and began to pull at the cords that held the man's wrists.

  Swinburne stared helplessly at the king's agent.

  “What's happened to him?” he cried, aghast at his friend's vacant eyes. He took Burton by the shoulders and shook him. “Pull yourself together, Richard! You're safe now!”

  “It's no use,” Lushington offered. “I'm afraid he's utterly loopy.”

  “Al-Masloub,” Burton whispered.

  Swinburne sat back on his heels. He turned to Herbert Spencer. A tear trickled down his cheek.

  “What'll we do, Herbert? I can't get any sense out of him. I don't know what this Al-Masloub thing is!”

  “First things first, lad. We should get him home.”

  Burton suddenly sat up, threw his head back, and screamed. Then, a far more horrifying sound—he gave a mindless giggle. “Al-Masloub,” he moaned quietly. His eyes moved aimlessly. His mouth hung slackly. He slowly toppled onto his side.

  Swinburne looked at him and sucked in a juddery breath. He couldn't help but think that the enemy had won. London, the heart of the Empire, was in chaos, and Burton, the only man who could possibly save it, looked like he might return to Bedlam—permanently!

  Midmorning the following Saturday—two days after Burton's rescue—an extraordinary carriage thundered into Montagu Place. It was a huge box constructed from iron plate and mounted on six thick wheels. There were no windows in it—just a two-inch-high horizontal slot in each of its sides—and its doors looked better suited to bank vaults than to a conveyance. The driver, rather than being situated on top in the normal manner, was seated inside a wedge-shaped cabin at its front. He, like the passenger, was entirely hidden from prying eyes. From the four corners of the vehicle, crenellated metal bartizans projected, and in each one stood a soldier with a rifle in his hands.

  It was nothing less than a small metal castle drawn by two large steam-horses. Accompanied by four outriders from the King's Cavalry, it rumbled, creaked, sizzled, and moaned to a standstill before number 14.

  Inside the house, Mrs. Angell, all petticoats and pinafore, tore into the study and shrieked: “The king's here! The king's here!” She jabbed her finger at the window. “Lord Almighty! His Majesty King Albert himself has come to the house!”

  Algernon Swinburne, who'd been sitting in quiet conversation with Herbert Spencer and Detective Inspector Trounce, looked up wearily. There were dark circles under his eyes.

  “That's very unlikely, Mrs. A,” he said.

  “It's impossible,” Trounce put in. “My dear woman, the king, God bless him, is under siege in Buckingham Palace. He can't get out and no one can get in, and it'll stay that way until our riffraff revolutionaries calm down and stop demanding that we become a damned republic! Pardon my language.”

  Spencer grunted and murmured: “The republican form of government is the highest blinkin’ form of government, but, because of this, it requires the highest type of human nature—a type nowhere at present existin’ in London, that's for bloomin’ certain!”

  “Stop your blessed chinwagging and look out of the window!” the housekeeper cried.

  Trounce raised his eyebrows.

  Swinburne sighed, stood, and crossed the room. He stepped past Admiral Lord Nelson, who was standing in his customary position, and peered out of the window. The doorbell jangled.

  Mrs. Angell lifted her pinafore and slapped it over her mouth to stifle a squeal.

  “My hat!” the poet exclaimed, staring out at the mighty armoured carriage.

  “What shall I do? What shall I do?” the old woman panicked.

  “Bed-wetter,” Pox the parakeet opined, with a cheery whistle.

  “Calm yourself, Mother. Stay here. I'll go,” Swinburne answered. He left the room.

  Trounce and Spencer stood and brushed down their clothing. Mrs. Angell bustled anxiously around the room, straightening pictures, adjusting ornaments and curios, dusting and fussing at top speed.

  “Nelson!” she barked. “Put these gentlemen's glasses away in the bureau and wipe the tabletop, then come here so I can give you a quick polish.”

  The clockwork man saluted and moved to obey.

  “I'm sure that ain't necess—” Spencer began.

  “Quiet!” Trounce whispered. “Never interrupt her when there's housework involved! You'll get your head bitten off!”

  Multiple footsteps sounded on the stairs. Swinburne entered, followed by Damien Burke and Gregory Hare, who were both back in their usual outlandish and outdated clothes. Palmerston's men each had their left arm in a sling.

  They stood aside.

  A tall man stepped into the room between them. He was dressed in a dark blue velvet suit with a long black cape draped over his shoulders. A black veil hung from the brim of his top hat, concealing his face completely.

  “Your Highness,” Mrs. Angell said, lowering herself into a deep curtsy.

  “Hardly that, madam,” the visitor replied, pulling off his hat and veil. “I am Henry John Temple, the Third Viscount Palmerston.”

  “Oh! It's only the prime minister!” the housekeeper exclaimed. She clutched at a chair and hauled herself back upright.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Palmerston muttered ruefully.

  “No!” Mrs. Angell gulped. “I mean—that is to say—ooh er!” She turned a deep shade of red.

  “Gentlemen, good lady,” Swinburne announced, “some of you have met, some of you haven't, so a quick who's who: this is Mrs. Iris Angell, Sir Richard's esteemed housekeeper; Detective Inspector William Trounce, one of Scotland Yard's finest; Mr. Herbert Spencer, our friendly neighbourhood philosopher; Lord Admiral Nelson, Richard's rather extraordinary valet; and Mr. Damien Burke and Mr. Gregory Hare, agents for the prime minister!”

  A loud warble interrupted him: “Cross-eyed nitwits!”

  “My apologies—and that is Pox, Sir Richard's newly acquired parakeet.”

  Palmerston looked disdainfully at the colourful little bird, gazed in awe at the clockwork man, then turned to Swinburne and said: “You sent me a message. You said Captain Burton is out of action. Explain. Where is he?”

  “Ah,” the poet answered. “You'd better come upstairs, Prime Minister. If the rest of you wouldn't mind waiting here, I'm sure Mrs. Angell will see to it that you're supplied with whatever refreshments take your fancy.”

  “Of course, sir,” the housekeeper simpered, curtseying again in the prime minister's direction. She winced and held her hip.

  Swinburne glanced at her and, despite his fatigue, managed a cheeky wink.

  He ushered Lord Palmerston from the room and up two flights of stairs to the library. As they approached the door, Palmerston asked: “Is that music I hear?”

  “Yes,” Swinburne said, laying his fingers on the door handle. “We rescued Richard two days ago. He was practically catatonic and repeated just one thing, over and over: Al-Masloub.”

  “Which means?”

  “We didn't know until we got him home. Mrs. Angell recognised it straightaway as the name of a musician Richard has over from time to time. We summoned the man, who arrived, spent a few minutes looking at our patient, went away again, and returned with two more musicians in tow. Since then, and without a moment's cease, this—”

  He pushed open the door.

  The library was filled with the swirling melodies and rhythms of an Arabian flute and drums. All the furniture had been shoved against the book-lined walls, and, in the middle of the floor, Sir Richard Francis Burton, dressed in a belted white robe and white pantaloons, his feet bare, and a tall fez upon his head, was spinning deliriously on the spot.

  His arms were held out, the forearms poised vertically, the palm of his right hand directed at the ceiling, the palm of his left at the floor. His head was thrown back
and his mouth and eyes were shut, as if in peaceful contemplation. There were droplets of sweat on his face—and he whirled and whirled!

  Around and around, gyrating at considerable speed, in time with the drumbeat, he appeared entirely oblivious to their presence.

  “Do you mean to tell me that His Majesty's agent has been spinning in circles for two days?” Palmerston huffed.

  “Yes, Prime Minister, he has. It's the dance of the Dervish, of the Sufi mystic. I believe he's attempting to repair the damage our enemies did to him.”

  Palmerston, his face as expressionless as ever, watched Burton for a few moments.

  “Well,” he muttered. “He'd better pull himself together soon. He might be the only person in the country who can tell me exactly why our normally industrious labouring classes have decided to go the way of the damned French. In the meantime—”

  Footsteps sounded as Burke and Hare pounded up the stairs.

  “Prime Minister, please excuse the interruption,” Burke said, speaking rapidly and with his voice raised above the music. He turned to the poet: “Mr. Swinburne, when you recovered Sir Richard, did he have an odd-looking pistol in his possession?”

  “The green thing?” the poet asked. “Yes, I found it in his jacket pocket. Is it a pistol? It doesn't look like one!”

  “Where is it now?”

  “In the top drawer of his main desk, by the windows.”

  Burke turned to Hare. “If you would, Mr. Hare?”

  With a nod, his colleague turned and headed back to the study.

  “What's happening?” Palmerston snapped.

  “A minute, if you please, sir,” Burke responded briskly. He leaned across and pulled the library door shut, muffling the melodic noise. He then indicated another door, just along the hall, and addressed Swinburne again: “What's in there?”

  “It's Richard's storeroom.”

  With a swift nod, Burke pushed past them, opened the door, and looked inside. He saw a room piled high with wooden boxes.

  “Excellent. In you go, please, Prime Minister.”

  “What the devil—!” Palmerston began.

  Gregory Hare reappeared, with Burton's spine-shooter in his hand. He passed it to his colleague.