Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

Fidget's deep brown eyes, which had been regarding him with disdain, slowly lost focus.

“Find your master!” Swinburne encouraged.

Fidget blinked, looked to the right, then to the left, then at Swinburne, then at Herbert Spencer.

“Wuff!”

He lowered his nose to the pavement and began to snuffle back and forth.

All of a sudden, he raised his head, bayed wildly, and set off at a terrific pace, almost yanking Spencer off his feet.

“He's got it!” Swinburne enthused, racing after the pair.

They ran out onto Gray's Inn Road, turned left, raced up to King's Cross Railway Station, then swerved left again onto the Euston Road.

“He seems mighty sure of himself!” Spencer puffed as they galloped along.

“That nose never fails!” Swinburne panted. “It saved my life last year. It's just a shame it's attached to the rest of the beast!”

At the junction with Russell Square, they encountered two constables who were grappling with a mad-eyed individual dressed in a bloodstained butcher's apron.

“What the devil do you think you're doing out and about at this time of night?” one of the policemen yelled at them.

“Government business!” Swinburne declared.

“Pull the other one, it's got bells on it!”

“Aargh!” the butcher howled. “Look at the little one! The red-haired git! He's a bloody toff! Kill ‘im! Kill ‘im!”

“Shut up,” the second policeman snapped. He grunted as the man's knee thudded into his stomach, and groaned to his companion: “Bash the blighter on the head, Bill!”

The poet, philosopher, and basset hound ran past the brawling trio and kept going.

Fidget led the two men onward until the bottom end of Regent's Park hove into view. The trail led past it and onto Marylebone Road. They had run about a mile so far.

“I never thought I'd be thankful for a riot!” Swinburne gasped.

“What do you mean, lad?”

“Isn't it obvious? Whoever's got Richard couldn't find transport! They're on foot!”

They hurried on for another mile. The road, one of the city's main highways, was empty of people but filled with rubble and wreckage. Fires still blazed and they found themselves plunging through clouds of black smoke. Many gas lamps had been vandalised, too, and lengths of the thoroughfare were pitch dark.

“Whoops!” Spencer cried as Fidget made an unexpected left turn.

“Bishop's Bridge Road,” Swinburne noted.

Just ahead of them, the lights of Paddington Railway Station flared out from within an enormous cloud of white steam. Fidget plunged straight into it.

The terminal was a scene of out-and-out chaos. A locomotive had derailed while entering the station, ploughing into one of the platforms. It was lying on its side with its boiler split open, vapour shooting out of the ripped metal.

Policemen and station workers milled about, and the moment Swinburne and Spencer stepped into the building, a constable, whose features were dominated by a truly enormous mustache, pounced on them.

“Stop right there! What are you two up to?” He looked at Swinburne curiously. “Hello hello. Haven't I seen you somewhere before? Hey up! I know! It was back when that brass man was left in Trafalgar Square! Constable Hoare is the name, sir. Samuel Hoare.”

“Hello, Hoare. We're on official business! Have a squint at this.”

Burton's assistant presented his credentials to the uniformed man, who examined them and raised his bushy eyebrows.

Fidget whined and tugged desperately at his lead. Hoare shook his head.

“This is too much for me,” he said. “I'll call my supervisor over, if you don't mind.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled into the cloud: “Commander! Commander!”

Swinburne breathed a sigh of relief as the steam parted and Commander Krishnamurthy strode into view. He was wearing the new Flying Squad uniform of a long brown leather coat and a flat peaked officer's hat. A pair of flying goggles dangled around his neck.

“What ho! What ho! What ho!” the poet cried happily. “Krishnamurthy, old horse! Why, I haven't seen you since the Battle of Old Ford! Aren't you sweltering in all that leather?”

“Hallo, Swinburne, old chap!” Krishnamurthy exclaimed, with an unrestrained grin. He grabbed his friend's hand and shook it. “Yes I am! Regulations, a hex on ’em! What on earth are you doing here, and at this time of night? Wait a minute-” he looked at Spencer “-aren't you Herbert Spencer, the philosopher chap? My cousin-Shyamji Bhatti-is always talking about you. Singing your praises, in fact.”

“That's very kind of him; he's a good fellow!” Spencer replied. “You look like him.”

“Dashingly handsome, you mean? Thanks very much. So what's the story, Mr. Swinburne?”

“Fidget's nose has led us here. We're tracking Richard. He's in trouble!”

Krishnamurthy looked down at the basset hound. “Well, this isn't the end of the trail by the looks of it. Let him lead on, we'll see where he takes us. You can tell me all about it on the way. Stay with us, Constable Hoare!”

“Yes, sir,” the mustachioed policeman answered.

In the event, Fidget didn't take them very far at all. The trail ended at the edge of platform three.

“They got on a train,” Krishnamurthy said. “So when do you think, Mr. Swinburne? It's just past half-two now and there've been no locomotives in or out of the station since rioters threw something onto the line and caused that one to derail a little over an hour ago.”

“Richard had an appointment at ten o'clock,” Swinburne answered. “His-um-his-er-his message reached me around midnight. So I guess whatever train left here with him aboard did so during the hour before the crash.”

Krishnamurthy turned to his subordinate. “Hoare, run and get a Bradshaw, would you? We'll look up the train times and destinations.”

The constable hurried away and, while he was gone, Swinburne gave the commander a brief outline of the events leading up to Burton's plea for help.

“So he got a message to you, did he? The resourceful so-and-so! What was it, a parakeet?”

Swinburne cleared his throat. “Um. I heard a tapping at the window, yes.”

“So what's all this seance malarkey about? What are the Rakes up to? I've been receiving preposterous reports from the West End. Some of my colleagues claim that dead Rakes are shuffling about in the Strand!”

“It's true,” Spencer said.

“As to what's going on,” Swinburne added, “hopefully Richard will be able to tell us, if we can snatch him out of their hands!”

Hoare returned with a portly gentleman in tow.

“I went one better than a Bradshaw and brought the stationmaster, sir.”

“Ah, good show. Hello, Mr. Arkwright. I presume you know the station's timetable better than the back of your hand?”

“I certainly do,” confessed the uniformed man. “I could sing it to you in my sleep, if I ever sleep again, which after this disaster I probably won't. Just look at the state of my station!”

“No serenades are required, thank you, but perhaps you could tell us what trains left this platform prior to the crash, after, say, half-twelve?”

“Just the one, sir, on account of it being the night timetable and us having a reduced service due to the public disorder.”

“And that was?”

“An offence against the king, if you ask me, sir.”

“I meant the train, Mr. Arkwright. When did it leave and where was it bound?”

“It was the twelve forty-five atmospheric service, sir, to Weymouth via Reading, stopping at Basingstoke, Winchester, Eastleigh, Southampton, Bournemouth, and Poole. Due in at-”

“Winchester!” Swinburne interrupted. “That's where they've taken him, I'd bet my life on it.”