Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“More or less, but I like to keep me hand in, so to speak. Waste o’ time, though. Them what was a-givin’ were givin’ to the Claimant, not to me!” He looked down at Swinburne, who was leaning heavily on Burton for support. “How you feelin’, lad?”

“I need a brandy.”

Burton snorted. “I think you've had quite enough!”

“Bloody Vincent Sneed, of all people!” the poet moaned.

“Herbert, you'd better come home with us. I'll dress that wound on your forehead,” Burton said.

They moved along Edgware Road then turned into Seymour Place. People ran past, all going in the same direction. Velocipedes and hansoms clattered by, too, pumping steam into the already laden atmosphere as they fled from the disturbance. Burton clearly saw a well-dressed wraith materialise in the vapours and drift across the cobbles to where a chaunter was leaning against a lamppost. The man's eyes were closed and he seemed oblivious to both the approaching phantom and the panic around him as he mournfully sang “Molly Malone:” “She was a fishmonger,

But sure ‘twas no wonder,

For so were her father and mother before,

And they each wheeled their barrow,

Through streets broad and narrow,

Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o!’”

The wraith hovered around the man. For a moment the apparition became almost completely opaque, taking on the appearance of a tall, stooped bearded man, then it faded from sight. The chaunter paused, winced, shook his head, then continued singing, but his song had changed, though he didn't seem to realise it: “Give me the man of honest heart,

I like no two-faced dodger,

But one who nobly speaks his part,

Like Kenealy does for Roger!

One honest lawyer's found at last,

Who'll ne'er desert his client,

He knows right well the cause is just,

He stands up like a giant. “Then say men say,

Be you low or rich born,

And have fair play,

For Kenealy and for Tichborne.”

“Aye!” a passing costermonger cried. “Give a cheer for brave Sir Roger!”

Various voices answered his call: “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

“Bastard upper-crust bastards!” a milk deliveryman yelled. “Bastard bloomin’ bastards!”

He bent, pulled a loose cobble from the road, and threw it through a house window.

Burton and Herbert Spencer, dragging Swinburne and Fidget along, entered Montagu Place and mounted the steps of number 14.

The front door was open. A table had been overturned in the hallway, pictures on the wall were hanging askew, and young Oscar Wilde, the newspaper seller, was picking pieces of a shattered vase up from the floor inside. His face was scratched, as if gouged by fingernails.

Muffled screams and thuds sounded from the cupboard beneath the stairs.

“What's been happening here, Quips?” Burton exclaimed, plonking Swinburne onto a hall chair.

“Oh, there you are, Captain,” said Oscar. “I was passing by and heard some sort of brouhaha from your house. As you know, my own business always bores me to death, I prefer other people's, so I poked my nose in. It seems your little maid has lost her mind. She was attacking Mrs. Angell, so she was.”

“What? Young Elsie? Is Mrs. Angell all right? Where is she?”

“Don't be worrying yourself, Captain, she's fine and dandy. She took herself downstairs to rest awhile. I said I'd clean up the mess.”

“Thank you, Quips. You're a good lad.” Burton set the table upright. “You locked Elsie in the cupboard, I take it?”

“To be sure. ‘Twas the only way to keep the young madam from wrecking the entire house. Phew! What a wildcat!”

Burton sighed. “Well, she can stay in there until she calms down. I'd ask what the devil got into her, but I suspect the answer would be Tichborne!”

“Aye, something of the sort. She was screaming incoherently, but from what I could make out, she seems to have acquired a bee in her bonnet about the suppression of the working classes.”

“Tichborne isn't working class,” Swinburne mumbled.

“You're right there, Mr. Swinburne! But the man who says he's Sir Roger most certainly is, don't you think?”

“It seems obvious,” said Burton, “but a surprising number of people don't see it that way. If what I witnessed today is any indication, three-quarters of the population are supporting a man they know is a liar and charlatan. It's utter lunacy!”

“Ah well, now I know you haven't been affected,” Oscar responded. “To disagree with three-fourths of the British public is one of the first requisites of sanity!”

A lgernon Swinburne pulled his legs up onto the saddlebag armchair and crossed them. He accepted a cup of coffee-his second-from Admiral Lord Nelson, rested the saucer on his ankles, and gazed down into the liquid.

“Whatever that headache I had was, it's been replaced by a different one. A hangover. Strange to say, that's actually a relief!”

Herbert Spencer, sitting opposite, his eyes fixed on the clockwork valet, nodded distractedly, and took a sip from his own cup.

Burton, ever the observer, was standing by the window looking down at the street. He saw isolated instances of vandalism and misbehaviour but, in the main, the riot had bypassed Montagu Place, though distant shouts and crashes suggested that it was in full swing elsewhere.

“I daresay the food helped, Algy. It was good of Mrs. Angell to cook for us after her ordeal.”

“She's everything her name suggests,” Swinburne responded. “I feel much happier now that my stomach is full.”

“Here's something else to cheer you up. I meant to tell you earlier but it slipped my mind. There's a second rotorchair in my garage. A gift to you from His Majesty.”

“My hat! A present from the king! How splendid!”

“Don't get too excited. We're going to have to be cautious about using the flying machines during this Tichborne business. Our opponent has already demonstrated an uncanny ability to deprive springs of their elasticity, thus disabling clocks, wind-up lanterns, and the hammer mechanisms of gun triggers. Since rotorchair engines employ spring pistons, I think we'll stick with swans for the time being.”

“Blast! I have a new toy and I can't play with it!”

“We may have to drop our ideas about John Speke, too. Whatever is going on, it seems less and less likely to me that he's behind it.”

“Why so?”

“Because what began as the theft of diamonds has broadened into some sort of political agitation. That's not John's style at all. He's far too selfish a man to care about such matters.”

“Then who? Edward Kenealy?”

Herbert Spencer interrupted: “No, lad. Back at the house, after you left, Kenealy was a-holdin’ seances to consult with Lady Mabella. If you ask me, the ghost is the one pullin’ the strings.”

Burton made a sound of agreement, but then the words the puppeteer is herself a puppet flashed through his mind.

“The odd thing is,” he said, “when Sir Alfred was being dragged through the house to his death, the apparition warned me not to interfere. I heard her voice clearly in my mind and it had a distinct accent. Russian, I'm positive.”

“Why is that odd?” asked Swinburne. “Aside from the obvious.”

“Because Lady Mabella Tichborne was from Hampshire.”

“Hamp-what? She was English?”

“Thoroughly. So whatever's been haunting Tichborne House, it is not the ghost of the woman who crawled around the wheat fields. In fact, I doubt that it's really a ghost at all.”

“It looked like one to me.”

“Then perhaps you can explain why it was rapping its knuckles on walls rather than floating straight through them?”

“You have an explanation?”