Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

The colonel, twisting the points of his extravagant muttonchops, paced up and down nervously.

“Mr. Hawkins,” he said, “tell me more about this Kenealy fellow.”

“Who's Kenealy?” Burton asked.

“Doctor Edward Vaughan Hyde Kenealy,” said Hawkins. “He's the Claimant's lawyer. He also considers himself a poet, literary critic, prophet, and would-be politician. He's a through-and-through Rake-a member of the inner circle thought to have gathered around the new leader, whoever that may be.”

“Well now!” Burton exclaimed. “That's very interesting indeed!”

Laurence Oliphant and Henry “The Mad Marquess” Beresford had formerly led the Rakes, but both had been killed by Burton last year, and the faction had been in disarray for some months.

“Not John Speke, surely!” Burton muttered to himself. Recent events would make a lot more sense if Speke was guiding the Rakes and using them to get at the black diamonds, but, somehow, Burton just couldn't see it. His former partner didn't possess leadership qualities, and furthermore, he was extremely conservative and repressed in character-not at all representative of the Rake philosophy.

Burton wondered whether he'd be able to prise some information out of the Claimant's lawyer.

“Interesting is not a word I'd use to describe Edward Kenealy, Sir Richard,” Henry Hawkins was saying. “Barking mad would be my choice. He's as nutty as a fruitcake, and a confounded brute, too. Ten years ago, he served a month in prison on a charge of aggravated assault against his six-year-old illegitimate son. The boy had been beaten half to death and almost strangled. Kenealy has since been accused-but not charged-with a number of assaults against prostitutes. He's a very active follower of the Marquis de Sade and adheres to the belief that inflicting pain weakens social constraints and liberates the spirit.”

Detective Inspector Trounce eyed Algernon Swinburne, who frowned back and muttered: “Some are givers, some are takers, Inspector.”

Hawkins continued: “He also subscribes to a rather incoherent theology which claims that a spiritual force is beginning to change the world-that we currently exist on the borderline between two great epochs, and the transformation from one to the other will cause a social apocalypse, overthrowing the world's ruling elite and passing power, instead, into the hands of the working classes.”

Burton shifted uneasily, remembering Countess Sabina's prophecy and his subsequent strange dream.

Hawkins went on: “He's published a number of long-winded and nonsensical texts to promote this creed but, if you ask me, the only useful information one can draw from them is the fact that their author is an egomaniac, fanatic, and fantasist. All in all, gentlemen, a very dangerous and unpredictable fellow to have as our opponent.”

“And one who's currently travelling down the carriageway, by the looks of it, what!” Jankyn noted from where he stood by the window. “There's a growler approaching.”

Lushington blew out a breath and rubbed his hands on the sides of his trousers. “Well, Mr. Hawkins-ahem!-let's go and cast our eyes over, that is to say, have a look at, the man who says he's Roger Tichborne. Gentlemen, if you'd be good enough to wait here, I'll introduce the Claimant and his lunatic lawyer presently.”

The two men left the room.

Swinburne crossed to the window just in time to see the horse-drawn carriage pass out of sight as it approached the portico.

“What do you think?” he asked Jankyn quietly. “Swindler or prodigal?”

“I'll reserve my judgement until I see him and he makes his case, what!”

Burton, who was standing beside one of the large bookcases with Detective Inspector Trounce, caught his assistant's eye.

With a nod to Jankyn, the poet left the window and walked over to the explorer, who pointed to a leather-bound volume. Swinburne read the spine: De Mythen van Verloren Halfedelstenen by Matthijs Schuyler.

“What of it?” he asked.

“This is the book that tells the myths of the three Eyes of Naga.”

“Humph!” the poet muttered. “Circumstantial evidence, I'll grant, but the ties between the Tichbornes and the black diamonds appear to be tightening!”

“They do!” Burton agreed.

Bogle entered carrying a decanter and some glasses. He put them on a sideboard and started to polish the glasses with a cloth, preparing to offer the men refreshment.

The door opened.

Colonel Lushington stepped in and stood to one side. His eyes were glazed and his jaw hung slackly.

Henry Hawkins followed. He wore an expression of shock, and was holding a hand to his head, as if experiencing pain.

“Gentlemen,” the colonel croaked. “May I present to you Doctor Edward Kenealy and-and-and the-the Claimant to the-to the Tichborne estate!”

A man entered behind him.

Dr. Kenealy possessed the same build as William Trounce; he was short, thickset, and burly. However, where the Scotland Yard man was mostly brawn, the lawyer was soft and running to fat.

His head was extraordinary. An enormous bush of dark hair and a very generous beard framed his broad face. His upper lip was clean-shaven, his mouth was wide, and he wore small thick-lensed spectacles behind which tiny bloodshot eyes glittered. The overall effect was that of a wild man of the woods peeking out from dense undergrowth.

He jerked an abrupt nod of greeting to each of them in turn, then said, in an aggressive tone: “Good day, sirs. I present-”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“-Sir Roger Tichborne!”

A shadow darkened the doorway behind him. Kenealy moved aside.

A great mass of coarse cloth and swollen flesh filled the portal from side to side, top to bottom, and slowly squeezed through, before straightening and expanding to its full height and breadth, which was simply enormous.

The Tichborne Claimant was around six and a half feet tall, prodigiously fat, and absolutely hideous.

A towering, blubbery mass, he stood on short legs as thick as tree trunks, which were encased in rough brown canvas trousers. His colossal belly pushed over the top of them, straining his waistcoat to such an extent that the material around the buttons had ripped and frayed.

His right arm was long and corpulent, stretching the stitching of his black jacket, and it ended in a bloated, plump-fingered and hairy hand. The left arm, by contrast, seemed withered below the elbow. It was shorter, and the hand was that of a more refined man, smooth-skinned and with long, slender fingers.

The enormous round head that squatted necklessly on the wide shoulders was, thought Burton, like something straight out of a nightmare. The face, which certainly resembled that of Roger Tichborne, if the portrait in the dining room was anything to go by, appeared to have been roughly stitched onto the front of the skull by means of a thick cartilaginous thread. Its edges were pulled tautly over the flesh beneath, causing the features to distort somewhat, slitting the eyes, flaring the nostrils, and pulling the lips horribly tight over big, greenish, tombstone teeth.

From behind this grotesque mask, dark, blank, cretinous eyes slowly surveyed the room.

The head was hairless, the scalp a nasty spotted and blemished yellow, and around the skull, encircling it entirely like a crown, were seven irregular lumps, each cut through by a line of stitches.

There came a sudden crash as Bogle dropped a glass.

The butler clutched at his temples, grimaced, then, his eyes filling with tears, he said: “My, sir! But how much stouter you are!”

The creature grunted and attempted a smile, pulling its lips back over its decayed teeth and bleeding gums. A line of pinkish drool oozed from its bottom lip.