Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“Right you are, Boss. Blimey! I'll take the bloomin’ snorin’ over this malarkey any day o’ the week!”

An hour later, Burton was lying in his bed, trying to work out exactly what he'd experienced. Some form of mesmerism, perhaps? Or maybe an intoxicating gas, as he'd suspected at Brundleweed's? How, though, could either of those account for the sudden loss of elasticity in the springs of his watch and lantern?

Whatever the explanation, the room's malevolent aura had vanished upon Swinburne's arrival, and the two of them had encountered nothing more during their subsequent patrol.

He slept.

It wasn't until fairly late the next morning that Burton and his assistant made an appearance downstairs. They were informed by Bogle that Colonel Lushington was awaiting them in the library with the Tichborne family lawyer. Upon entering, they saw the two men standing near the fireplace and were immediately struck by the gravity of their host's expression.

“There's news,” the colonel announced. “It's bad. The Dowager Lady Henriette-Felicite passed away last night at her apartment. The one in Paris.”

“The cause of death?” Burton asked.

“Heart stopped. Failed. Old age, no doubt. She'd been ailing for a considerable period.”

He looked from his two guests to the other man and back again.

“Forgive me, I should make introductions. Polite thing to do. Ahem! Forgot myself. This gentleman is Mr. Henry Hawkins. A lawyer. He'll be defending the family against the Claimant. Mr. Hawkins, may I present Sir Richard Burton and Mr.-um-um-um-”

“Algernon Swinburne.” Swinburne sighed.

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Hawkins, stepping forward to shake their hands. He was an average-sized and average-looking individual whose bland features were at odds with his reputation, for Burton had heard of “Hanging Hawkins,” and knew him for a man whose cross-examinations in court were probing in the extreme-“savage,” some might say. A hint of this came with Hawkins's next comment: “Of course, the dowager's death is more a blow to our opponent than it is to us. A mother's recognition would be virtually indestructible in court, were it demonstrated in person. Now, though, we can reduce it to the status of hearsay.”

“Was the man who claims to be her son present at her death?” Burton enquired.

“No. He's already in London. He'll be arriving here tomorrow afternoon.”

“What about Sir Alfred?” Swinburne put in. “Has he been informed?”

Colonel Lushington nodded. “About an hour ago. I'm afraid it didn't do much for his nerves. Jankyn is attending to him. How was your midnight patrol? Did you encounter the mice-that is to say, Lady Mabella?”

“Pardon me, what's this?” Hawkins interrupted.

“Oh, just some nonsense about the Tichborne family curse,” Lushington answered. “Utter tosh and balderdash, without a doubt. Young Alfred has got it into his head that the house is haunted. By a ghost, be damned! A ghost!”

“My word! We mustn't let him mention it in court. He'll lose all credibility!”

“What if it's true?” Swinburne asked.

Burton jabbed his fingers into the poet's ribs.

“To answer your question, Colonel,” said the king's agent, “no, I didn't see a ghostly woman floating about last night. Nor did I expect to. There was, however, a rather remarkable mist flowing past the house, down the slope, and into the lake.”

“Ah, yes,” said Lushington. “It's a fairly common occurrence. It's a mist, plain and simple. It arises in the Crawls and flows down into the hollow. Covers the lake.”

“Intriguing!” Burton exclaimed. “It only forms over the Crawls? Not the other wheat fields?”

“That's so. Absolutely the case. Odd, now that I think about it. I don't know why. Something to do with the lie of the land, perhaps? Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Neither has Mr. Hawkins. Come to think of it, neither have I. I suggest we have a late breakfast. What do you say? A cup of tea, at least? Good for the stamina.”

Later that day, while Lushington and Hawkins worked on their legal case in the library, Burton and Swinburne sat in the smoking room and considered the Tichborne poem.

“I'm pretty certain that Eye blacker than Lady Mabella's is a reference to the Eye of Naga,” Burton announced.

“I don't disagree,” said Swinburne. He imitated Lushington: “Or do I? I don't know!”

“Shut up, Algy.”

“Certainly. Or certainly not, as the case may be.”

Burton sighed and shook his head despairingly, then continued: “And it seems that a considerable part of the first stanza might be a reference to the Crawls.”

Swinburne nodded: “My Lady's round and By her damned charity bound. Do you think the tears that weep might be the mist?”

“I don't know. That doesn't feel quite right to me. What about this line: One curse here enfolds another?”

“Her curse was that the annual dole must continue in perpetuity or else the Tichborne family would find itself without an heir,” Swinburne noted. “But you'll remember that the dole itself attracted hordes of beggars to the estate. Maybe that's one curse wrapped in another?”

“Possibly. But Vexations in the poor enables? Vexations? Why would the poor respond to a gift of free flour with vexation? No, Algy, it won't do.”

The king's agent struck a lucifer and applied it to his third Manila cheroot of the day. Swinburne wrinkled his nose.

“If the diamond were buried beneath the Crawls,” Burton mused, “then Consume if thou wouldst uncover becomes a directive: eat the wheat to uncover the treasure.”

“Or burn it.”

“Indeed. However, it's the beginning of the growing season and I doubt the family will give us permission to destroy their crop, not least because it would make it impossible to pay the dole. No harm in having a poke around out there, though. Besides, a breath of fresh air will do us good.”

“For sure,” Swinburne agreed, eyeing his friend's cigar.

Some thirty minutes later, the king's agent and his assistant met beneath the portico at the entrance to the house. They were wearing tweed suits, strong boots, and cloth caps, and each carried a cane. As they descended the steps, a voice hailed them from the doorway: “I say, you chaps, do you mind if I join you?”

It was Sir Alfred, his white hair stark against his dark mourning suit. His face was gaunt, his eyes red.

“Not at all,” Burton answered. “My condolences, Sir Alfred. We heard the news earlier.”

“My mother lived only for my brother,” the baronet said as they stepped down to the carriageway and started across it. “When he was lost, she began to age very rapidly. The last time I saw her, she was extremely frail. If the bounder who claims to be Roger really is who he says he is, then I blame him for her demise. If he isn't-and I still maintain that he isn't-then I blame him doubly. I feel certain that she knew in her heart of hearts that the cad is nothing but a wicked imposter. She died of disappointment, I'm convinced of it.”

“Yet she passed away maintaining that her eldest son had returned?”

“She did. The pitiful wish of a broken woman. Where are we going-just for a stroll?”

“I want to have a closer look at the Crawls. I'm curious as to why a mist arises from them but not from the adjoining fields.”

“Ah, yes. Mysterious, isn't it? I've often wondered myself.”

The three men reached the edge of the wheat field and started to skirt around its right-hand border, walking alongside a low hedgerow.

“A promising crop this year,” said Tichborne. “Look how green it is!”

“Now that you mention it,” Burton said, thoughtfully, “it appears that the Crawls are the greenest of all your fields.”