Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“Is something troubling you?” Burton enquired. “Has something happened?”

“All that's bleedin’ well ’appened is that you're a-standin’ on me patch gettin’ in the way of them honest workin’ folks what wants to buy cockles an’ whelks.”

“Well, what say I buy a bag?” Swinburne suggested. “I like my cockles with a sprinkling of vinegar, if you please.” He hiccupped.

“I don't please, an’ you can keep yer bloomin’ money, you pipsqueak! Get away from ’ere! Go on! Skedaddle, the lot o’ yer!”

The end of a tremendously long, thin leg thumped onto the road beside them as a harvestman of the order Phalangium opilio passed. The colossal arachnid-called by some a “daddy-long-legs”-was a one-man delivery vehicle. The carapace of its small oval body, which bobbed along twenty feet in the air as the eight elongated legs propelled it forward, had been carved into a bowl-shaped driver's seat, behind which a steam engine chugged. Beneath the body, a wooden crate dangled, held by netting.

The vehicle's twin funnels pumped a thick plume of steam into the air, and a tendril of the vapour curled down and rolled over the men, momentarily obscuring Mr. Grub. When he came back into view, he was holding his hand to his forehead and his face was twisted with pain.

“Why don't you all bugger off!” he mumbled as the bizarre vehicle vanished around a corner.

“I'm placing you under arrest for-” began Detective Inspector Honesty.

“No,” Burton interrupted, gripping the smaller man's upper arm. “Leave him, there's a good chap. Let's move on.”

“But-”

“Come!”

Burton guided the Yard man away, followed by Swinburne and Trounce. The latter looked back at the street vendor in puzzlement.

“By Jove! What extraordinary rudeness!” he muttered.

“And entirely out of character,” Burton observed. “Perhaps he's having trouble at home.”

“Should be arrested!” Honesty grumbled. “Insulting a police officer.”

“There are bigger fish to fry,” Burton noted.

They walked on down Gloucester Place until the northeastern corner of Hyde Park came into view. A big crowd had gathered there, comprised almost entirely of working-class men, with rolled-up shirtsleeves, suspenders, and cloth caps. A few top-hatted gents were hovering at the outer edges of the gathering. Dr. Kenealy and the Claimant could be seen near a podium. They were encircled by a number of foppishly dressed individuals-obviously Rakes-who appeared to be acting as bodyguards.

“What a crowd!” Trounce observed as they pushed their way into the mob.

“All come to goggle at the freak!” Swinburne said.

A man with pocked skin and bad teeth leaned close and said: “He ain't no bloomin’ freak, mister. He's an haristocrat what's been cheated outa what's rightfully ‘is by the blasted lawyers!”

“My good sir!” the poet protested.

“Go about your business,” Trounce commanded.

The man sneered nastily, turned his back, and hobbled away, swearing under his breath.

They stood and waited.

Ten minutes later, Burton asked, “Is it my imagination or are we on the receiving end of some rather hostile glances?”

“Shhh!” Swinburne responded. “The Claimant's about to speak!” He pulled a silver flask from his jacket pocket and swigged from it.

The grossly obese giant had heaved himself up onto the podium. The crowd spontaneously broke into song: “I've seen a great deal of gaiety throughout my noisy life,

With all my grand accomplishments I ne'er could get a wife,

The thing I most excel in is the P. R. F. G. game,

A-noise all night, in bed all day, and swimming in Champagne!”

Swinburne laughed, and in a loud, high-pitched voice, joined in with the chorus: “For Champagne Charlie is my name;

Champagne Charlie is my name,

Good for any game at night, my boys;

Good for any game at night, my boys,

Champagne Charlie is my name;

Champagne Charlie is my name,

Good for any game at night, boys;

Who'll come and join me in a spree?”

“Be quiet, you idiot-you're attracting attention!” Burton hissed.

Dr. Kenealy climbed up beside his client and waved for the crowd to quiet down.

Reluctantly, it did so.

“I'd like to introduce to you,” he began, in a loud voice, “a man who is well acquainted with this country's aristocratic families, due to the fact that he is himself one of their number.”

“Boo!” hooted someone close to Burton and his colleagues.

“In fact,” Kenealy continued, “he is actually a distant cousin of my client!”

“Hurrah!” yelled the man who'd just booed.

“Please spare a little of your time for Mr. Anthony Biddulph!”

Kenealy stepped down and a short, skinny man sporting a mustache and bushy side whiskers took his place at the Claimant's side.

“My friends,” Biddulph boomed, in a surprisingly powerful tone, “I could point out several English gentlemen who would not pass muster as English gentlemen any better-” he placed a hand on the Claimant's forearm “-than this man here does.”

Laughter and jeers from the crowd.

“For no matter the circumstances of their birth, they are apparently no better than farmers, and I would place Tichborne among that class.”

“Cor blimey! You ain't suggestin’ that aristos are stupid, are yer?” someone shouted.

The crowd cheered.

“I refer to the accusations that have been levelled at this man which suggest he can't be who he says he is because he seems uneducated. Well, let me tell you, I have heard of persons called English gentlemen who were so illiterate in conversations that you would take them to be nothing better than pig-jobbers!”

“There ain't nuffink wrong wiv a pig-jobber!” cried a voice. “I should know, I be one meself-an’ I hain't hilliterate neither!”

More laughter.

“Quite so!” Biddulph cried. “And this man is unique in his class in that he knows what it means to earn his daily crust!”

Long enthusiastic cheers erupted.

Biddulph stepped down.

“Tichbooooorne,” the Claimant rumbled, grinning vacantly. A string of drool swung from his lower lip.

Kenealy reappeared beside him. “You have all heard our enemies’ protestations!” he cried. “You all know that they refuse to believe that this man is Sir Roger Tichborne.”

“It's a conspiracy!” someone shouted.

“Precisely!” Kenealy agreed. “Precisely! I have here a former Carabineer who served at my client's side; slept in the same barracks; spent day after day in his company! Spare a moment, if you will, for Mr. James M'Cann!”

He removed himself from the podium again and was replaced by a burly individual, who, in a melodramatic tone, announced: “There's no doubt in my mind that the man who stands at my side, though rather stouter than previous-”

Loud guffaws all around.

“-is undoubtedly Roger Tichborne, or ‘Frenchy,’ as we used to call him. I recognised him the instant I saw him by his forehead, head, and ears.”

More laughter, cheers, and jeers.

“His ears I knew well by seeing him in bed every morning for two years.”

“Stuck out from under the blankets, did they?” came a distant voice.

Burton stood on tiptoe and looked back. The crowd had more than trebled in size since he and his friends had arrived.

“There is nothing extraordinarily particular about the ears that I know of,” M'Cann answered. “Only I knew ’em. I don't know if I could have recognised him from his ears if I had seen nothing else.”

A fresh outburst of raucous laughter rippled through the crowd. Cloth caps were thrown into the air.

Steam billowed over the gathering, rolling from east to west. The platform was momentarily obscured, and when Burton saw it clearly again, M'Cann had departed and Edward Kenealy was silencing the vast audience.