Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

Burton noticed that the four young gents who'd moved away a few minutes earlier were once again enduring rough handling at the hands of thuggish men. Their hats had been knocked to the ground and stamped on, their walking canes broken. As he made to go to their aid, more men separated from the crowd and ran over to Trounce and Honesty, jumping onto them with fists flying. Trounce was struck on the back of the head by a beefily built individual. He went down. Burton ran and dived at the attacker, catching him around the waist. He lifted him clean off his feet and dashed him to the ground.

Jeb, meanwhile, his left arm still locked in Honesty's iron grip, sent his right fist arcing up toward the smaller man's chin. Honesty jerked his head back, the fist flew up past his face, and he replied by ramming his truncheon into Jeb's rib cage. The big man groaned and fell to his knees.

Trounce, struggling to his feet, caught a boot that was swinging at his face and twisted it violently. The man to whose leg it was attached pitched over.

A mean-looking fellow dug his fingers into Honesty's shoulder. Burton caught him by the collar, wrenched him around, and sent him spinning into others who were coming to join the fray. They all went down in a tangled heap.

The king's agent barked a command at Herbert Spencer: “Grab Swinburne and drag him away from here!”

Spencer made a move toward the poet but was sent staggering when a small wiry man swung a metal rod into his forehead. As the vagrant philosopher stumbled into him and they both fell to the grass, Swinburne looked up and saw that the attacker possessed a perfectly enormous nose.

“Bloody hell! It's Vincent Sneed!” he cried, for it was the man who'd been his employer when he'd masqueraded as a sweep during the Spring Heeled Jack case. “It's the Conk!”

Sneed looked down at him with a vicious light in his piggy eyes.

“What didja call me?” he hissed. “The Conk, is it? The Conk? Who the heck are you to-to-” His eyes widened. “Stone me!” he breathed. “It's you! The blinkin’ whippersnapper what left me in the lurch!”

“And gladly so, you callous blackguard!” Swinburne declared as he pushed himself to his feet. “What in God's name has prompted you to set foot outside of the East End?”

Sneed stuck out his scrawny chest and said with pride, “I'm a funnel scrubber, ain't I!”

Funnel scrubbers worked on the big Technologist rotorships, cleaning out the pipes and exhausts. The job was a step up for a lowly chimney sweep, and paid enough to get a man out of the slums and into cheap lodgings.

Sneed cast his eyes over the smaller man's smart jacket, waistcoat, and trousers. “What're you a-wearin’ them gentleman's togs for?”

“Because, Mr. Conk,” Swinburne replied, “it just so happens that I am -hic!-a gentleman, and, as such, I feel honour bound to-”

Without bothering to finish his sentence, Swinburne let out a piercing scream and charged forward with his head bent low, driving it straight into Sneed's stomach. The East Ender grunted as the wind was knocked out of him, but managed to fling his arms around the poet's waist and heaved him up, head downward.

“All right, you little rat-” he began.

“Oh no you don't!” Herbert Spencer cried, and kicked Sneed's legs from under him. The sweep fell flat on his back and Swinburne's shoulder buried itself in his groin.

“Oof!” he gasped, and as the poet rolled off him, Sneed curled into a ball and vomited onto the grass.

“Ha!” Swinburne yelled. “That'll teach you, you swine!” The poet adopted what he thought might be a boxer's stance and swayed unsteadily. “Come on! Get up so I can knock you down again!”

“Beggin’ your pardin for a-sayin’ so,” Spencer interrupted, “but you ain't got no chance against the likes o’ this scoundrel.” He grabbed Swinburne by the wrist. “So just you follow me out o’ this here affray.”

“What? No! I want to punch him on the blasted nose, Herbert! The fiend treated me foully when I was-” Swinburne's words were lost in the escalating commotion as Spencer dragged him away and off toward the edge of the crowd.

Sneed took a great gulp of air and yelled after them: “I'll get you yet, you pipsqueak! This ain't finished by a long shot! By God, I'll flay you alive!”

Burton, meanwhile, was helping Detective Inspector Trounce up off his knees. “Come on, Trounce. Hey! Honesty! Leave that man! Let's go!”

“He's under arrest!” Honesty protested. His dapper appearance had been considerably dishevelled.

“He's more trouble than he's worth!” Burton shouted above the noise of the angry crowd. He bent and picked up Fidget.

Herbert came abreast of him, dragging Swinburne.

“Naargh!” the poet cried, incoherently. He broke away from the philosopher, swung his fist at nothing in particular, missed, and stumbled. Spencer bent low, scooped him up, and threw him over his shoulder.

Burton and his companions backed away from the crowd.

The workers howled abuse at them and shook their fists.

“What in God's name is happening?” Trounce gasped.

“There's a riot developing,” Burton said, “and we have to get out of it immediately. Are you all right? You took a blow to the head.”

“I know. It's aching abominably.”

“Mine, too,” Honesty noted. “But I wasn't hit.”

“Me neither, but I have a throbbing at the back of my skull, too,” said Burton.

“I'm fine,” put in Spencer. “P'raps it's me life on the streets what's given me a stronger constitution.”

They hurried out of the crowd, pushing aside swearing, threatening individuals, and hurried away from Speakers’ Corner and into Park Lane. Men poured into the streets behind them. There came the sounds of breaking glass, screams, yells, and crashes. Burton glanced back and saw a group pushing a hansom cab onto its side. A velocipede was stopped, its rider pulled off the high saddle and punched in the face.

The king's agent and his companions jogged along the pavement until they came to the corner of Edgware Road. They hastened down the wide thoroughfare. A millipede omnibus-they were now known as “omnipedes”-thundered past and the cloud belching from its sides curled across the street. Two ghostly figures formed within the vapour then faded from sight.

“Put me down,” Swinburne groaned.

Spencer placed the poet on his feet and the little man doubled over and clutched his head.

Burton held his assistant by the arm. “Is it the same pain you felt in the labyrinth at Tichborne House?”

“Yes. Pounding at my brain! I tell you, Richard, it's like they're trying to get inside of me!”

Trounce looked at the little poet. “By James, I know what he means!”

“An invisible force of some sort is trying to influence us,” Burton answered. “It succeeded before with Algy, but this time it's met with some resistance.”

Detective Inspector Honesty turned to his fellow officer. “Better summon reinforcements. Riot in progress. Could be bad.”

Trounce ran a hand over his forehead. “Of course. I'm forgetting my duties. By Jove, I can hardly think straight! Captain Burton, Detective Inspector Honesty and I had better get to work. We'll whistle for constables, see if we can get that rabble under control.”

Burton put Fidget down, clipped on the lead, then shook the two men's hands. “Very well. Good luck! And be careful.”

The Scotland Yard men dashed away, and the king's agent turned to the vagrant philosopher.

“Thank you, Herbert, you helped us out of a tight squeeze. What were you doing there, anyway?”

“Workin’ the crowd, Boss.”

“You mean begging?”

“Yus.”

“But you're gainfully employed now!”