Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man
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- Название:The curious case of the Clockwork Man
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“That's what we thought. What are the Rakes up to these days? Who's their new leader?”
“I'm afraid I can't cast much light on the matter. The veil of secrecy surrounding the faction has never been more impenetrable. The new leader is a Russian, I believe, and arrived in this country early in February. Who he is, where he's staying-those are questions I can't answer.”
“He?” said Burton. “Or she?”
“Hmm. I couldn't say. A woman, though? Doesn't that seem rather unlikely? What I can tell you is this: since he-or she-took over, the Rakes have been holding seances around the clock.”
“Well now, that's interesting! Are they trying to communicate with someone who's died? Laurence Oliphant or Henry Beresford, perhaps?”
“I don't know, Richard, but if they are speaking to the departed, then I doubt that it's their former leaders they're conversing with.”
“Why so?”
“Simply because the Rakes who were closest to Oliphant and the Mad Marquess have been rather on the out and out these months past. The new regime has been assiduous in sidelining the old.”
“So who's close to the new leader? Can you name names?”
Milnes looked thoughtful for a moment but then shrugged and said: “I'd help if I could, but I simply don't know any of the new crowd.”
Swinburne piped up: “What about a chap named Boyle or Foyle? A tall, stooped fellow with a big beard and wire-rimmed spectacles.”
Milnes shook his head. “Doesn't ring any bells.”
“Do you mean Doyle?” Bradlaugh asked.
“I don't know. Do I?”
“He fits the description and he's a Rake, of that I'm sure. He was at a party at my place a few months back. You were there, too. A little before Christmas. You were in your cups at the time. So was I, come to think of it.”
Swinburne threw up his hands. “I was at a party at your place?”
Bradlaugh chuckled. “Your absence of memory is no surprise. You'd been at it long before you even arrived. My footman opened your carriage's door and you plopped out face-first onto the street, while your topper rolled away into the gutter. If it's any consolation, Doyle is a much worse drunkard than you ever were.”
Bendyshe snorted. “I don't know about that! There was that time when-” He stopped as Burton's hand clamped his arm tightly.
“Sorry, Tom, but this could be important. Bradlaugh, this Doyle fellow-who is he?”
“A storybook artist. From Edinburgh. Charles Altamont Doyle. He's the brother of my friend Richard Doyle, who's also an artist-you've probably seen his work, he's quite successful. Charles, on the other hand-at least from what I know of him-is simply too unworldly to make much of himself. He's an awfully morbid sort-prone to black moods and fits of despair. I think that's what drives him to drink. It's a tragedy, really. He has a young wife and God knows how many children to support, but what little he earns is spent on the demon booze. He has a taste for burgundy and will sink to any depths to get it, and if he can't, he'll resort to anything else he can lay his hands on. Rumour has it that on one particularly desperate occasion he drank a bottle of furniture polish.”
“Good lord!” James Hunt exclaimed. “The man should be in an asylum!”
“I have no doubt that he will be soon,” Bradlaugh responded. “At the aforementioned party, he certainly appeared to be teetering on the brink of insanity. He has a pet obsession, a delusion, which seems to haunt his every waking hour. He ranted about it interminably that night; didn't stop until he passed out.”
“What is it?” Swinburne asked.
“He's convinced that fairies exist and are communicating with him from the unseen world.”
Sir Richard Francis Burton felt goosebumps rise on his forearms.
Bismillah! Fairies again!
“You mean he hears voices in his head?” said Swinburne.
“Absolutely. I should say he's damaged his brain through excessive drinking.”
“Where is he now?” Burton asked. “Where does he live?”
“Not with his wife. She threw him out after he stole pocket money from his own children. I believe he has lodgings somewhere in the city but I don't know where.”
“And his wife's address?”
Bradlaugh gave it, and Burton copied it into his notebook.
The king's agent looked at the bloodstained towel in his hands.
“If you'll excuse us for a moment, I think Algy and I should repair to the washroom to get properly cleaned up. We'll rejoin you in a few minutes.”
“Of course! Of course! Is there anything else you need?” Milnes asked.
“I could do with a belt,” Swinburne answered, gripping his trousers as he stood.
“’Tis ever the case,” Bendyshe opined with a smirk.
The following morning, while Algernon Swinburne went to call on Charles Doyle's wife, Sir Richard Francis Burton received a visit from Burke and Hare.
Palmerston's odd-job men resembled nothing so much as a couple of eighteenth-century gravediggers. Despite the hot weather, they were dressed in their customary black surtouts, with black waistcoats and white shirts underneath. The Gladstone collars of the latter were cheek-scraping, eye-threatening points that looked utterly ridiculous to Burton. The shirts were tucked into high-waisted knee-length breeches. Yellow tights encased the men's calves. Their black shoes were decorated with large silver buckles. They each held a stovepipe hat.
As the two men stepped into Burton's study, they were greeted with: “Slobbering dolts! Bumble thick-wits!”
“My apologies, gentlemen,” Burton said, with a grin. “The new member of my household is somewhat lacking in manners.” He gestured toward a perch standing near one of the bookcases. “Meet Pox, my messenger parakeet.”
“Sod off!” the bird trilled.
“You're a brave man, Captain Burton,” Burke said, in his sepulchral voice. “There's not many could stand having one of those little devils in their home.”
Damien Burke was tall, slightly hunchbacked, extremely bald, and sported the variety of side whiskers popularly known as “Piccadilly weepers.” His face hung in a permanently maudlin expression, with a down-curving mouth, jowly cheeks, and woebegone eyes.
“Have you been in the wars, sir?” he asked. “You appear somewhat bedraggled, if you'll forgive the observation.”
“It wasn't a war, it was a riot,” the king's agent corrected. “But the cuts are shallow and the bruises are healing.”
Burke placed something onto Burton's principal desk.
The king's agent eyed the object, which was wrapped in linen and had the approximate shape and dimensions of a pistol. “I haven't been outside yet. How is it? Are the streets quieter?”
“Somewhat, sir,” Gregory Hare responded. “Isn't that so, Mr. Burke?” He was shorter than his companion and immensely broad, with massive shoulders and apish arms. A shock of pure white hair stood upright from his head and grew down around the angle of his heavy square jaw to a tuft beneath his chin. His pale-grey eyes shone from within deep gristly sockets, his nose was splayed, and his mouth was tremendously wide and filled with large, flat, tightly packed teeth.
Both men, in Burton's opinion, were hideous-looking.
“Quite so, Mr. Hare,” Burke replied. “I should point out, however, that the Tichborne Claimant intends to address the public from a platform in Saint James's Park at four o'clock.”
“You think it will lead to further rioting?” Burton asked.
“Do you, Captain?”
“I consider it highly likely, yes.”
“We share your opinion, don't we, Mr. Hare?”
“We do, Mr. Burke.”
“Noxious fume-pumpers!” Pox screamed.
Hare ignored the bird and indicated the package. “A gift for you, Captain.”
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