Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“It's-it's-it's that I can't trust that the message is valid, Captain.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because-I know it sounds strange-but this, what I do, my ability to glimpse not only the future, but futures -plural-should not be possible!”

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean. You have a reputation for accuracy and I've seen it demonstrated. Plainly, it is not only possible but also actual.”

“Yes, and that's the problem! Prognostication, cheiromancy, spiritualism-these things are spoken of in the other history, but they do not work there, and those who claim such powers are regarded as nothing but charlatans and swindlers.”

Burton got to his feet, took his visitor by the upper arms, and turned her to face him.

“Countess, you and I are privy to a fact that very, very few people know: namely, that the natural course of time has been interfered with. The history we are living is different from what would otherwise have been. People are being exposed to opportunities and challenges they perhaps should not experience, and it is changing them entirely. Future mechanisms, hinted at in conversations between Edward Oxford's companion, Henry Beresford, and Isambard Kingdom Brunel, are being developed according to current knowledge, giving us a glut of contraptions that, in all probability, should never have existed at all. Yet, amid all this chaos and confusion, there is one thing we can be certain of: changing time cannot possibly alter natural laws. I don't know whether spiritualist powers belong to the science of physics or to the science of biology; I know only that they are real. You are the living evidence.”

Countess Sabina's eyes met his, and in them he saw utter conviction as she said: “And yet, in the world that should have been, they are not real. They are not real. Somehow, Captain Burton, I feel this is the key!”

“The key to what?”

“To-to the survival of the British Empire!”

Later that same day, Burton was standing by one of his study windows smoking a Manila cheroot, filling the room with its pungent scent and staring sightlessly at the street below, when a messenger parakeet landed on the sill. Raising the window, he received: “Message from that dung-squeezer, Detective Inspector Trounce. Message begins. Word has reached me that you're back on your feet, you dirty shunt-knobbler. I'll call round at eight this evening. Message ends.”

Burton chuckled. Dirty shunt-knobbler. He must tell Algy that one.

He did, later, when Swinburne visited, and the poet roared with laughter, which was cut short when Fidget, Burton's basset hound, bit his ankle.

“Yow! Damn and blast the confounded dog! Why does he always do that?” he screeched.

“It's just his way of showing affection.”

“Can't you train him to be a little less expressive?”

They sat and chatted, relaxing in each other's company, enjoying their easy though unlikely friendship. Perhaps no stranger pair could be found in the whole of London than the brutal-faced, hard-bitten explorer and the delicate, rather effeminate-looking poet. Yet there was an intellectual-and perhaps spiritual-bond between them, which had begun with a shared love for the work of the Portuguese poet Camoens; had been sustained by a mutual need to know where their own limits lay-if, indeed, they had any; and was now strengthened by the challenges and dangers they faced together in the service of the king.

On the dot of eight, there came a hammering at the front door, followed by footsteps on the stairs and a tapping at the study door.

“Come!” Burton called.

The portal swung open and Mrs. Angell crossed the threshold. She stood nervously wrapping her hands in her pinafore.

“Detective Inspector T-Trounce and a young con-constable to see you, sir,” she stammered. “And-and-goodness gracious me!”

“Mrs. Angell? Are you quite all right?”

Trounce stepped into the room behind her. Constable Bhatti followed.

“Hallo, Captain! Hallo, Swinburne!” the Scotland Yard man cried cheerfully. “Mrs. Angell, my dear woman, don't worry yourself! I promise you, it's absolutely harmless!”

“B-but-bless my soul!” the old dame stuttered. She threw up her hands and bustled out of the room.

“What's harmless?” Burton asked.

“You look like your old self again!” Trounce exclaimed, ignoring the question. “But never mind! Worse things happen at sea!”

Swinburne gave a screech of laughter.

“Come in, gentlemen; help yourself to a drink and cigar,” Burton invited, indicating the decanter and the cigar box.

They did so, pulled over a couple of armchairs, and settled around the fireplace with the king's agent and the poet. Fidget sprawled on the hearthrug at their feet.

“We have a gift for you, Captain,” Trounce declared with a mischievous twinkle.

“Really? Why?”

“Oh, for services rendered and whatnot! Besides, I noticed that your shoes are never polished, your cuffs are frayed, and your collars need starching!”

“Ever the detective. What on earth has my personal grooming got to do with anything?”

“I'm suggesting, Captain Burton, that you're in dire need of a gentleman's gentleman-a valet!”

“I have a housekeeper and a maid. Any more staff and I'll be managing a ‘household!’”

“Only those that need managing,” Trounce said. He winked at Bhatti.

The young constable smiled and called: “Enter!”

A figure of gleaming brass walked in, closed the door, and stood, whirring softly.

Fidget yelped and dived behind a chair.

“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “Is that the clockwork man of Trafalgar Square?”

“The very same!” Trounce answered. “Constable Bhatti has been studying him for the past three weeks.”

“We found a key that fitted him in the priory,” the constable added. “Then it was just a matter of experimentation. As I suspected, the little switches at the front of the babbage dictate his behaviour. He can be rendered more aggressive, subservient, independent; you can set him to respond to any voice, specific voices, or just your own. What do think, Captain Burton?”

Burton looked at each of his guests, then turned his gaze to the brass man.

“Frankly, gentlemen,” he said, “I'm at a complete loss. You mean me to keep this mechanism as a valet?”

“Yes,” Trounce said. “It will do whatever you tell it!”

Bhatti nodded and added: “It has enough independence to perform tasks without needing to be told all the time. For example, if you order it to ensure that your shoes are polished by six o'clock each morning, then it will never need telling again.”

“I wish I could say the same about my missus!” Trounce muttered.

“Wait, Captain!” Bhatti said, jumping up. He strode to the brass man and stood in front of it. “Everybody remain silent, please. Captain Burton, would you say a few words when I nod at you?”

“Words? What words?”

“Any! It doesn't matter!”

The constable took a small screwdriver from his pocket, turned to the clockwork figure, unscrewed the small porthole in its “forehead,” and used the tool to click down one of the small switches inside.

“The next voice you hear,” he told the device, “will be the only voice you obey unless it instructs you otherwise.”

He turned and nodded to Burton.

Rather self-consciously, the famous explorer cleared his throat: “I-er-I am Richard Burton and, apparently, you are now my valet.”

The brass man turned its head slightly until it appeared to be looking straight at Burton.

It saluted.

“That's its way of acknowledging your command,” said Bhatti. He reached into the porthole and flipped the switch back, then closed the little glass door and started to screw it into place.