Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“Sir Roger Tichborne will now address you directly,” he proclaimed.

This was greeted by more cheering, which quickly gave way to an expectant silence.

The Claimant grinned, and drawled, “Cruelly persecuted is what I am. Yesss. There is but-one course I can-seeee, and that is to-to-to adopt the suggestion so many have made to me. Thus, I must a-appeal to you-the British public-for funds for my-my-my defence. Yesss. I appeal to you to help defend the weak against-against-against the strong.”

Burton looked down at Fidget in surprise. The hound was growling ferociously and all along his spine the hair was standing on end. The king's agent looked up and around. For the most part, the gathering seemed transfixed by the Claimant. Off to his left, though, it appeared that an argument was developing between a small group of gentlemen and the workers surrounding them. There were also-

Burton blinked and peered into the steam. Bismillah!

There were things moving in the ever-shifting white vapour!

“Look!” he hissed at his friends.

Unfortunately, Swinburne, Trounce, and Honesty were too short to see over the heads of the men surrounding them, so only Burton was aware that vague, wispy, and transparent figures were materialising among the crowd, dispersing then re-forming, glimpsed then instantly doubted. He could only see them from the corners of his eyes; the moment he directed his gaze full upon them, they seemed to melt away.

He rubbed a hand across his face, squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again.

A sudden cry of pain came from one of the gentlemen off to the left.

“What was that? What's happening?” Trounce demanded.

“I insist-upon,” the Claimant declared, “fair play for-for every maaan!”

“A fight has broken out,” Burton answered. He started to shoulder his way toward the scuffle, with Fidget at his heels and Swinburne and the two police detectives following behind.

“I look-to the-the working classes!” the fat orator bellowed, his voice thick and slurred. “That noble part of the-the-the British public!”

The crowd loosed a deafening roar of approval.

Burton saw a top hat knocked from a head.

“Watch where you're bleedin’ well goin’, you stupid git!” a man spat as the king's agent pushed past.

“Them lawyers call me such baaad names, yesss,” the Claimant rumbled.

Burton nearly tripped over a body that lay sprawled on the grass. He looked down and saw a well-dressed youth whose nose had been badly bloodied. A brutish-looking older man, dressed in canvas trousers and a grimy cotton shirt, was in the act of swinging his booted foot into the prone youngster's side.

Burton pushed the assailant away.

“Get off him, man!”

“Oy! What's it to do wiv you?” came the aggressive response.

“Yeah, tell ‘im to keep ‘is toffee-nose out of it, Jeb!” another of the crowd added.

Swinburne bent to help the young gentleman to his feet but hiccupped, lost his balance, and pitched over on top of him.

“Oops!” he said.

The man pushed him aside, cast him a doubtful look, retrieved his dented top hat, scrambled to his feet, and backed away.

Trounce and Honesty positioned themselves at either side of the king's agent.

The man named Jeb stepped close to Burton until their noses were just inches apart and tried to stare him down.

“Are you an’ your pals gonna get in my way, chum?”

“My pals are from Scotland Yard,” Burton replied quietly, his sullen and intense gaze holding firm.

Jeb looked from Burton to Trounce to Honesty then back at Burton.

“Need the ladies’ protection, do yer? Can't take care o’ yerself, I suppose?”

“Ow!” Swinburne yelled.

Jeb looked down and saw a small basset hound with its teeth embedded in the little red-haired man's ankle. He looked up and saw Burton's knuckles. The punch caught him square between the eyes and he stumbled backward, with blood spraying from his nose, into one of his cohorts.

Trounce and Honesty swooped and grabbed him by the arms. He struggled, shouting incoherently.

Burton saw madness in the man's eyes and shuddered. Faces in the crowd were turned toward the commotion. There were mutterings and curses. He snapped his head around as something seemed to flit past to his right. He had an impression of a ghostly figure but saw only steam, coiling and curling.

“Get out of here!” a voice hissed. “Scarper while you can, Boss!”

He turned and was surprised to find Herbert Spencer, with a flat cap pulled low over his forehead, standing at his side.

The young gent with the bloodied nose muttered, “Thank you,” and pushed past the onlookers to join his friends, three well-dressed young men who were standing nervously nearby. They moved away, with catcalls and hoots of derision following them.

“Be quiet!” Detective Inspector Trounce shouted angrily.

“Make us!” came a challenge.

Honesty twisted Jeb's arm up behind his back, holding it locked there with one hand. With the other, he pulled a truncheon from his belt. Trounce noticed the move and followed suit.

“It's the pri-privileged what decides the-the fate of honest folk!” came the Claimant's voice. “And I have no doubt-that-lawyers can do a great many things, yesss. They freq-freq-frequently make black appear-appear white. But I'm sorry to say, they more freq-frequently make white app-appear black!”

Burton frowned. Everything the Claimant said sounded rehearsed. They were plainly not his own words.

“There's trouble a-brewing!” Spencer whispered. “Can you see the wraiths? They're the same as what I saw down by the lake at Tichborne House. I reckons it's them what's turnin’ the crowd ugly!”

“I think you're right,” Burton replied, looking around at a sea of angry faces.

Trounce and Honesty began to force their way through the throng, dragging their prisoner after them. They were cursed and insulted as they pushed past men whose faces were contorting with fury and contempt.

“Why, hallo, Herbert!” Swinburne said, noticing the vagrant philosopher for the first time. “Exciting, isn't it? Are you resisting the influence? I am!”

“Algy!” said Burton. “What are you prattling about?”

“They're trying to make me think old flabby guts is Roger Tichborne,” his assistant replied. “I can feel them prodding at my head. But this time they can't get in!”

He raised his fists and dodged about, taking wild swipes at the air.

“Bloody spooks! You'll not get me!”

Fidget bit him again.

“Argh!”

“Stop it, you drunken ass,” Burton snapped. “Calm down. Let's make ourselves scarce before this lot get any nastier.”

Swinburne swayed. “My hat! I'm absolutely blotto,” he grumbled, fumbling for his flask.

The three of them and Fidget followed the two policemen. They weathered a worsening storm of abuse from those they passed.

One man, a big bearded fellow, stepped forward and swung a fist at Burton. The king's agent ducked beneath it and rammed his own into the man's stomach.

“Bastard!” someone yelled.

Kenealy's voice rang out over the cloth-capped heads.

“You have heard my client speak! I say again, there is a conspiracy against him! The government is attempting to prosecute a man who they know is innocent of the charges made against him! The object is clear: they wish to keep the large Tichborne estate in the hands of the Arundell and Doughty families-families that we all know possess undue influence in many sections of English society! Catholic families! Catholic, I say! Are we going to stand for it?”

“No!” the onlookers roared.

Trounce and Honesty, heaving the writhing Jeb along, broke through the edge of the crowd, with Burton, Swinburne, Spencer, and Fidget in their wake.