Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“Yes, it's ironic, don't you think? The best wheat we grow, we have to give away!”

The king's agent stopped walking and looked around at the landscape.

“I don't see any obvious geographical explanation. All the fields on this incline are equally exposed to whatever weather conditions prevail. If the Crawls dipped down slightly, I might suspect an underground water source, but in fact, if anything, they appear to hump up somewhat.”

Swinburne squatted, using his cane for balance, and peered at the horizon.

“You're right,” he said. “It's barely noticeable, but this part of the slope is definitely a little bit higher. My goodness, what a geographer's eye you have, Richard!”

“Enough to know that something's not quite right here. At this low altitude, mist should form in hollows, not on the raised part of a slope. The only explanation for the vapour is that there's a warm spring beneath our feet. Yet, as I say, it should result in a slight dip in the incline, not the opposite. Let's walk on.”

They hiked to the top of the field and continued on into the one beyond.

“My hat! The Lady Mabella crawled all this way!” Swinburne exclaimed.

“Driven by the devil.” Tichborne shuddered. “Did you hear her knocking last night?”

“No,” said Burton, quickly, before Swinburne could open his mouth. “Did you?”

“I'm afraid I rather overdid it at supper,” the baronet answered. “I was oblivious to all from the moment my head hit the pillow-wasn't conscious of a thing until I awoke this morning.”

“Something rather peculiar occurred in the music room. A note was struck at the piano-”

“-But no one was there,” Tichborne finished. “I bet that put the wind up you.”

“It did. It's happened before, then?”

“For as long as I can remember. Three or four nights a week-bong!-for no apparent reason. Always the same note, too.”

“B below middle C.”

“Really? I wouldn't know. It used to give Grandfather the heebie-jeebies, but my guess is it's nothing more than the piano stretching and contracting with changes of temperature.”

They reached the top of the slope and Tichborne pointed to the surrounding land.

“All these wheat and barley fields are part of the estate, up to that line of trees, there. The houses yonder form the hamlet of Tichborne, which is mostly occupied by the families who work our land. As you can see, the estate is on a shallow slope that runs down into the Itchen Valley and the river. Over there-” he pointed northeastward “-is the village of Alresford.”

They continued on along the top border of the Crawls then turned at the corner and started back down toward the mansion. When they passed into the bottom field, Burton stopped and walked out into the crop.

“What are you doing?” Tichborne asked.

“Wait a moment.”

Burton pushed the end of his cane into the loamy soil then leaned on it with his full weight. It sank into the soft earth until the soil's resistance stopped it.

Swinburne said: “Anything?”

“No.”

“What were you expecting?” asked Tichborne.

“I don't know. I'm convinced there's something under these two fields. I thought perhaps the end of my cane might encounter rock or brickwork.”

“Wheat roots can reach a depth of almost four feet,” the baronet said, “so the soil here is deep; too deep for your stick to touch the bottom, if there is one.”

Burton withdrew his cane, wiped a handkerchief along its length, and returned to the edge of the field.

They made their way down to the carriageway.

“I'd like to see your swans,” Tichborne said. “Would you care to stroll around to the lake with me?”

“Certainly,” Burton agreed.

As they walked, the king's agent cast sidelong glances at the aristocrat. Sir Alfred's mood seemed strange; he was touring his estate with what appeared to be a sense of finality, as if he were saying goodbye to his ancestral home. Burton's intuition told him that this was more than the baronet's reaction to his supposed brother's imminent arrival-something else was bothering him.

“I expect you'll be somewhat relieved to see the Claimant tomorrow,” he said. “After all these weeks, you'll finally set eyes on the man, and will, at least, know one way or the other.”

“Yes, perhaps so,” Tichborne answered, with a distracted air.

He fell into a self-absorbed silence They circled the lake then returned to the house with barely another word spoken.

By suppertime, despite that the rooms were brightly lit with camphor lamps and mole candles, an ominous atmosphere had settled over the house. Sir Alfred sat at the dinner table with Burton and Swinburne, Colonel Lushington, Henry Hawkins, and Doctor Jankyn, and began to drink even more heavily than the night before.

Conversation was desultory and sporadic, and the men ate with little enthusiasm, though the food was excellent.

“Your Mrs. Picklethorpe works wonders,” Swinburne commented after a long and uncomfortable silence.

“She does,” Sir Alfred answered, with a slight slur. “The Tichborne pantries have always enjoyed the reputation of being the best stocked in all of Hampshire, and she certainly does justice to their contents.”

Burton froze with a forkful of beef half raised to his mouth.

“Richard?” Swinburne enquired, puzzled by his friend's expression.

Burton lowered the fork. “Do you think I might see the kitchen and pantries at some point?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Tichborne. “Why? Do you take an interest in cooking?”

“Not at all. It's the architecture of the house that fascinates me.”

“The cook and her staff will be cleaning up now, after which it'll be a little late. What say you we go down there tomorrow morning before the Claimant shows up?”

“Thank you.”

They finished eating.

Tichborne stood and swayed slightly.

“I'd much appreciate a few rounds of billiards,” he said. “Will you gentlemen join me?”

“Sir Alfred-” Doctor Jankyn began, but the baronet stopped him with a sharp gesture.

“Don't fuss, Jankyn. I'm perfectly fine. Join us.”

They repaired to the billiard room. Hawkins began a game with Swinburne and was surprised to find the poet a formidable opponent.

Bogle served port and sweet sherry.

Lushington put a flame to a meerschaum pipe, and Jankyn lit a briar, while Burton, Hawkins, and Tichborne all opted for cigars. Within minutes, the room was thick with a blue haze of tobacco smoke.

“By golly, it's a veritable drubbing!” the lawyer exclaimed as Swinburne potted three balls in quick succession.

“If only you were as accurate with a pistol!” Burton whispered to his friend.

“To be perfectly honest,” Swinburne replied, grinning, “I'm not hitting the balls I'm aiming at. It's sheer luck that the ones I am hitting are going in!”

He won the game against Hawkins, then played Colonel Lushington and beat him, too.

Sir Alfred took up a cue. “I'll be the next lamb to the slaughter,” he announced, and they began the game.

As Burton watched, he became aware that he was feeling oddly apprehensive, and when he looked at the others’ faces, he could see they were experiencing the same sensation: the inexplicable presentiment that something was going to happen.

He shook himself and emptied his glass in a single swallow.

“Another port, please, Bogle.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“You might open the window a crack, too. It's like a London pea-souper in here.”

“I would, sir, but it's worse outside.”

“Worse? What do you mean?”

“It's the mist, sir. It's risen unusually high tonight-quite suddenly, too. Right up to the second storey of the house, and thicker than I've ever seen it.”