Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“Now we're going back up the fields,” said Burton, “but this time on their left border.”

When they again reached what he estimated was the halfway mark beneath the fields above, Burton expected to find an opening in the wall to his right. There wasn't one. Instead, the passage continued straight up to the topmost border of the fields then turned left. It continued under the highest point of the Crawls then swerved ninety degrees to the right.

“Back in the direction of the house again!” Burton murmured.

“This is getting ridiculous,” said Swinburne.

The tunnel led them back down to the middle point beneath the edge of the Crawls, turned right, then a few paces later, right again.

“And now back up to the top. We're slowly spiralling inward, Algy. It makes sense. This place follows the design of a classical labyrinth.”

“And here's us without a skein of thread!”

“We don't need one. Labyrinths of this sort are unicursal. Their route to the centre is always unambiguous: just a spiral that folds back in on itself over and over until the middle is reached.”

“Where the minotaur awaits.”

“I fear so.”

Swinburne stopped. “What? What? Not another monster, surely?”

Burton smiled grimly. “No. The same one, I should think.”

“Sir Roger?”

“The Claimant.”

“Yes, that's what I meant.”

Burton looked at the diminutive poet speculatively. “Odd, though, how you keep referring to him as Sir Roger.”

“Merely a slip of the tongue.”

“Like Colonel Lushington's?”

“No! Let's push on.”

The echoing dripping increased as they passed along the stone corridor, which angled back and forth, ever closer to whatever lay at the centre of the structure.

Burton stopped and whispered: “Listen!”

“Water.”

“No, there's something else.”

Swinburne concentrated. “Yes, I hear it. A sort of low hum.”

“B below middle C, Algy. I'll wager it's the diamond, singing like the Choir Stones. That's what sets the piano off-resonance!”

They turned a corner and saw that it was much lighter ahead.

“Careful,” Burton breathed.

They started to walk on their toes.

The sound of running water was loud now, and the droning musical note could be easily heard.

Voices came to them.

One, harsh in tone, said: “Check the walls.”

“Edward Kenealy,” Burton whispered.

“Yaaas, I check,” answered another.

“The minotaur,” Swinburne hissed.

“Hammer on each stone,” Kenealy instructed. “Don't miss an inch. There has to be a cavity concealed here somewhere.”

The king's agent tiptoed forward with Swinburne at his heels. They came to a right-angled turn and peeked around its corner.

Ahead, the tunnel opened onto a large tall-ceilinged square chamber. A stream of water, about two feet wide, fell vertically from a slot in the top of the right-hand wall, cascading into a channel built into the floor. It flowed, steaming, across the middle of the room and disappeared into an opening in the brickwork opposite.

“Tears, that weep within My Lady's round,” quoted Swinburne under his breath.

The humming of the diamond filled the space, seeming to come from everywhere at once, yet the gem was nowhere in sight.

Something pushed through the hair at the nape of the poet's neck. A cold ring of steel touched the top of his spine.

“Hands up!” said a voice.

Swinburne did as he was told.

Burton turned. “Doctor Jankyn,” he said, flatly.

“A bullet will drill through this young man's brain if you try anything, and you wouldn't want that, what!”

“Don't try anything, Richard,” Swinburne advised earnestly.

They heard Kenealy call: “What's going on?”

“A couple of uninvited guests,” Jankyn replied.

“Bring them here!”

“Move into the chamber, gentlemen,” the physician ordered. “Keep your hands where I can see them, please.”

They obeyed.

“Burton,” the Tichborne Claimant grunted as the king's agent stepped into view. “Bad man.”

“And a trespasser,” Kenealy added. “What are you playing at, sir? I ordered you to leave the estate.”

“I had unfinished business to attend to.”

“As we observed. Rather stupid of you to leave the contents of the pantry piled up in the kitchen. Bogle brought it to my attention.”

“How did you open the door?”

“I found a lever in the left-hand room-a shelf that slides sideways and twists upward.”

“I was a fool to miss it.”

“You had no right to be nosing around. I should have you arrested.”

“Arrested,” drawled the mountain of flesh standing in the centre of the chamber. The Claimant surveyed Burton with mindless eyes.

“Try it,” the king's agent challenged.

“Why are you meddling?” Kenealy demanded. “You're a geographer, sir! An explorer! A Livingstone! What has this affair to do with you?”

Burton ignored the question, especially the Livingstone reference, and pointed nonchalantly at the Claimant.

“Who-or should I ask what -is that, Kenealy?”

“It's Sir Roger Tichborne.”

“We both know that's not true, don't we?”

“I insist that it's Sir Roger Tichborne.” The lawyer looked past Burton. “Is that not so, Doctor Jankyn?”

“Absolutely!” said the physician.

“And what do you think, Mr. Swinburne?” Kenealy asked.

“Me? I think my arms are aching. May I lower them?”

“Yes. Step away from him, Jankyn, but keep your pistol steady. If our guests misbehave, shoot to kill.”

“Thank you,” Swinburne said. “And may I say, you're an absolute charmer, Mr. Kenealy.”

“Answer my question. Is this, in your opinion, Sir Roger Tichborne?”

Swinburne hesitated.

“I think-”

He raised a hand to his head and winced.

Burton watched his assistant carefully.

“I think-”

The Claimant let loose a bubbling chuckle.

“I think,” the poet groaned, “that-he is-is probably-Tichborne.”

“Ah. There we have it.” Kenealy smiled.

“Are you quite all right, Algy?” Burton asked.

“Yes. No. Yes. I-my head hurts.”

“Sir Roger,” the lawyer said, turning to the Claimant, “there is an intruder on your property. You have every right to protect your interests.”

“Protect!” the Claimant rumbled. He lumbered forward. “Protect!”

“Kenealy!” Burton snapped. “There is no need to-”

The Claimant's elephantine body blocked his view of the chamber. A meaty hand shot out and grasped the lapels of Burton's jacket and shirt. Cloth ripped as the fingers closed.

Burton was hauled off his feet, swung around, and thrown with tremendous force clear across the room. He slammed into a wall, bounced from it, and landed in a loose-limbed heap on the floor.

“Sir Roger!” Swinburne cried. “Don't!”

“Heh heh!” the Claimant gurgled. He shuffled over to the prone man.

“Perfectly legal, of course,” Kenealy observed.

“I say! He's a jolly strong bounder, what!” Jankyn exclaimed as Burton was hoisted over the Claimant's head and thrown back across the chamber.

“He is, Doctor,” Kenealy agreed. “Life in the colonies does that to a man, even if he was born an aristocrat.”

Burton rolled, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out his pistol. As the light from the burning torches pushed the Claimant's vast shadow across him, he raised the weapon and pulled the trigger. The shot was deafening in the enclosed space and everyone flinched. A hole appeared in the cloth stretched across his assailant's belly, but no blood flowed and the bullet appeared to have little effect.

“Baaad man,” the Claimant moaned, reaching down.