Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“Or we might not,” Spencer muttered. “Would it be so bad if the workin’ man-an’ woman, I might add-gained some measure of power? Don't you think it's becomin’ a matter of urgency that they do?”

“Maybe so,” Burton replied, thinking of Countess Sabina and his subsequent dream: a transition begins-a melting of one great cycle into another. “But do we really want such a change to be forced upon us by an external power? I find it inconceivable that they might be doing it for our own good!”

He flicked the stub of his cheroot into the fireplace, stood, and paced back across to the window.

“We must get to the root of this.”

His eyes scanned the road below. Two labourers were trailing along behind a gentleman, mocking him relentlessly. Despite this scene, Montagu Place was unusually quiet for the hour.

“In order to strengthen our campaign against the enemy, Algy, we must first strengthen ourselves. I've resisted it in the past, but I think it's time I mesmerised you.”

“Really?”

“Really. I want to see whether I can stop you becoming a Tichborne supporter every time the Claimant is nearby. If I can't, the only other option is for you to stay permanently drunk, and I'd rather avoid that.”

Swinburne puffed out his cheeks and expelled a breath with a pop. “Oh, it wouldn't be so bad! Besides, you've always refused to exercise your mental magnetism on me before!”

“True,” Burton affirmed. “I was concerned that your excitable disposition might react in an unpredictable manner. However, seeing as this affair is making you unpredictable anyway, my former caution seems somewhat misplaced. I shall employ a Sufi technique to fortify my own psychic defences, too. Then I have a task for you.”

“Good! What?”

“The Rake connection interests me. We've yet to identify their new leader. I want you to dig around-but keep out of mischief.”

“I'll talk to my Libertine chums. I say, though-Rakes and Tichborne-it seems a contradiction, doesn't it? If our mysterious opponent is attempting to stir up the working classes, why employ Rakes, who epitomise the idea of the insouciant aristo?”

“My thought exactly!”

Swinburne suddenly froze and looked at his friend with a puzzled expression.

“That wraith,” he said. “The one by the chaunter. You saw it?”

“Clearly!”

“For a moment, it seemed to manifest rather more solidly and took on the appearance of a tall bearded man. I swear he was wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, too. The thing of it is, I feel I've seen him somewhere before.”

“You recognised the manifestation as an actual person?”

“Yes. That wisp of steam resembled someone whose path I've crossed at some point, I'm sure of it, but for the life of me I can't recall whom. The name ‘Boyle’ or ‘Foyle’ springs to mind.”

“Keep thinking on it, Algy-it could be important.”

Spencer rubbed a hand over his bald scalp and said, “Is there anythin’ I can do to help, Boss?”

“Thank you, Herbert, there is. Your immunity and your-if you don't mind me saying so-disreputable appearance, enable you to wander through the thick of it without being molested. I'd like you to keep an eye on things at street level, see how widespread the apparitions are, and, if possible, find out where they're most numerous.”

“Right you are!”

“First, though, I'd like you to return to Miss Mayson's to make a purchase on my behalf.”

He explained further and supplied the philosopher with the requisite amount of money.

Swinburne piped up: “It's a quarter to eight, Richard. What say you we toddle on over to the Cannibal Club for a natter with Monckton Milnes? He usually has a better handle on what the Rakes are up to than I do. You can mesmerise me afterward.”

“An excellent idea. We'll take the penny-farthings. I don't fancy walking the streets at night, not while the rank and file are up in arms.”

Half an hour later, Herbert Spencer descended the steps of 14 Montagu Place and headed off toward SPARTA on Orange Street.

Meanwhile, Burton and Swinburne left the study and went down the stairs to Mrs. Angell's domain. While Swinburne waited by the back door, Burton tapped lightly on the entrance to the old lady's parlour. A voice called from within. He poked his head into the room beyond.

“I thought I'd check to see how you are,” he said. “I hope you didn't tire yourself cooking for us. It was very kind of you to do so.”

“I'm fine, Sir Richard. No need to worry. A bruised hip, nothing more. How's little Elsie?”

“Doctor Steinhaueser gave her a sedative. She's asleep in the guest room and certainly won't wake up before morning. I sent a message to her parents and they'll come to pick her up soon. You needn't do anything more this evening. Just rest, my dear, and if you want anything, ring for Admiral Lord Nelson.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Burton returned to Swinburne and they went out to the garage. A few moments later they steered their penny-farthings into Wyndham Mews and set off toward Leicester Square.

The evening sky was clear, a dark and deepening blue, with three or four stars already twinkling. It was warm. A slight, directionless breeze stirred the air lazily.

At ground level, ribbons of steam twisted slowly across the surface of the road, occasionally rising up like serpents poised to strike. They swirled away from passing traffic then curled back inward.

There were far fewer vehicles on the streets than usual.

“Where is everyone?” Swinburne called over the racket of his penny-farthing's chugging engine.

“Sheltering behind locked doors, I imagine,” Burton responded. “Or resting after a hard day's rioting!”

“By golly, what a lot of broken windows! It looks as if a tornado passed through town!”

“Watch where you steer. There might be debris in the road. Hey! Where are you going?”

“This way, it's a short cut!” the poet shrilled, suddenly veering off the main street and into a narrow lane.

“Blast it, Algy, what are you up to?”

“Follow me!”

The steam proved to be much thicker in the backstreets; a dense milky pall, reminiscent of that which rose from the Crawls in the grounds of Tichborne House. The top of the cloud was almost level with the saddles of the velocipedes-about the same height as the top of an average man's head-and the two penny-farthings, as they clattered through it, left a widening wake behind them, exactly as if they were steering through a liquid.

Gas lamps flared, casting sharp shadows on the sides of the buildings and walls on either side of the lane, and making the top of the mist glaringly luminescent.

“Slow down, Algy! I can't see the surface of the road! Are you sure you know where we're going?”

“Yes, don't worry! I've been this way many a time!”

“Why?”

“For Verbena Lodge!”

“The brothel?”

“Yes!”

“I might have-” Burton's teeth clacked together as his vehicle bounced over a pothole “-known!”

They turned right into a less well-lit street, then left into another, and immediately found themselves in the midst of a disturbance. Yells and screams rose out of the cloud, women's shouts and men's protestations.

There came a loud report, almost like a gunshot, and Swinburne suddenly vanished.

The king's agent saw the small rear wheel of his assistant's velocipede fly upward before dropping back into the mist. He heard the machine's engine race, cough, splutter, and die.

He squeezed his brake levers and swung down from his vehicle, plunging into the cloud.

“Algy? Did you hit something? Are you all right?”

“Over here, Richard! I-”

Crack!

“Yow!”

Burton moved toward the raised voices, peering into the murk. Were those figures just ahead?