Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“Yus,” Spencer agreed. “Then by carriage to Alresford and on to Tichborne House!”

“Bloody hell!” the little poet cursed, flapping his arms wildly. “Our rotorchairs are somewhere between Clerkenwell and Scotland Yard by now! I say! Krishnamurthy, old bean, I don't suppose we could commandeer a couple of your police fliers?”

The commander shook his head regretfully. “I'd say yes, of course, but they're all in the air, what with tonight's disturbances. We're monitoring the edge of the riot zone as it expands outward. The bigger it gets, the closer we're pushed to our limit.”

“If it's police business, you could requisition an atmospheric carriage,” the stationmaster said quietly.

“Confound it! I suppose we'll have to make our way to Miss Mayson's place, though we can ill afford the delay, and I daresay she's sick of us making off with her swans-” Swinburne stopped and looked at Mr. Arkwright. “What was that?”

“I said, if it's police business, you could requisition an atmospheric carriage. We've been moving them to the sidings since the crash, so there are plenty available. And there'll be no more trains on the line until daylight. If I wire ahead to the pump stations and signal boxes, you'll get a clear run. It's only sixty miles, and one carriage alone will do you a good fifty-five-miles-per-hour minimum.”

“You can supply a driver?”

“You won't need one, sir, which is just as well, since some of the beggars seem to have lost their heads and others have been taken ill. But no, it's all automated.”

Krishnamurthy punched a fist into his palm. “I'm in on this!” he snapped.

“Me too, if that's all right, sir,” Constable Hoare interjected.

Swinburne slapped his hands together. “Then let's get this rescue party moving!”

The atmospheric railway system was one of Isambard Kingdom Brunel's inventions. Between its wide-gauge tracks ran a fifteen-inch-diameter pipe, its top cut through lengthwise by a slot which was sealed with a leather flap-valve. Beneath the train carriages, a thin shaft ran down through the slot and was affixed to a dumbbell-shaped piston, which fitted snugly inside the pipe. Every three miles, pump stations sucked air out in front of the trains and forced it back into the pipe behind. The pressure differential shot the carriages along the tracks at great speed.

The run down to Winchester was fast and uneventful. They arrived at half-past four in the morning. The carriage drew to a halt and its passengers jumped down onto the station platform. The night guard greeted them.

“The police special from London,” he said, unnecessarily. “Commander?”

“Me,” Krishnamurthy answered. “Did passengers leave the previous train?”

“Just a small group, sir. A black fellow brought a steam-horse and wagon to meet them. Some sort of medical case. They were escorting the patient.”

“Richard!” Swinburne exclaimed. “And that must have been Bogle driving the wagon.”

“I don't know what you intend now, gentlemen, but there won't be any cabs available at this time of morning.”

“How far is it to Tichborne House, Mr. Swinburne?” Krishnamurthy asked.

“Four miles or so. I should think we can leg it across country.”

“Then let's do so!”

By virtue of its famous cathedral, Winchester was a city, but in size it was little more than a small town, and it wasn't long before the four men and one dog were beyond its bounds.

The land to the east was heavily farmed; a patchwork of wheat and cornfields separated by high hedgerows and well-trodden dirt paths; a rippled terrain of low hills and shallow valleys, with scarecrows darkly silhouetted against the starry sky.

They traversed it silently.

Swinburne was beside himself with anxiety, and his nervous energy infected the rest of the party, so that none of them felt the effects of their sleepless night. A grim mood overtook the group, and they walked with jaws set and fists clenched, expecting a battle and determined to win it.

Finally, they reached the brow of a hill and looked down at the Tichborne estate just as a vague hint of orange smudged the eastern horizon.

It occurred to Swinburne, when he looked at that first glimmering of dawn, that he was also looking in the direction of burning London, and he realised that whatever the enemy's plans were, they were coming to fruition now, and the one person who might be able to oppose them was either their prisoner-or dead.

The party was descending at an angle into the shallow valley at the back of the manor house, drawing closer to the willow-lined lake, when Constable Hoare pointed and asked: “Is that a man?”

It was.

A dead man.

For a dreadful moment, Swinburne thought it was Burton, but as they reached the body, which lay facedown beside a crooked tree, and turned it over, he recognised Guilfoyle the groundsman.

“What happened to him?” Krishnamurthy gasped.

All the capillaries beneath the skin of Guilfoyle's face had burst, and blood, still wet, had leaked from his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. His lips were drawn back over his teeth and frozen in an appalling expression of agony.

Herbert Spencer sighed. “Poor blighter. Nice chap, he was. Kept an eye on Miss Mayson's swans when I was a-stayin’ here afore. Saw to it that they had plenty to eat.”

A double-barrelled shotgun lay beside the corpse. Krishnamurthy picked it up and examined it.

“It's been fired. One barrel.”

“No lights showing in the house, sir,” Hoare noted.

“Oof!” Spencer grunted as Fidget yanked at his lead. “Looks like the dog has picked up the scent again!”

“Allow him to show us the way, Mr. Spencer,” Krishnamurthy ordered. “And voices low, please, gentlemen!”

Following behind the basset hound, they ran up the slope to the back of Tichborne House, crossed the patio, and entered cautiously through the open doors to the gunroom.

The house was silent.

Hoare touched his superior's arm and pointed to the floor. Krishna-murthy looked down and, in the dim light, saw black spots trailing across it. He bent and touched one, raised his finger to his nose, and whispered: “Blood. Someone's hurt.”

“Not Richard, I hope!” Swinburne hissed.

They moved across the chamber and out into the hallway, tiptoed along it, and passed into the large ballroom.

Fidget's nose, and the trail of blood, took them straight across the dance floor, out through another door, and along a passage toward the smoking room. Before they got there, the dog pulled them into an off-branching corridor.

“I thought so,” Swinburne muttered. “There are stairs ahead that lead down to the servants’ quarters, the kitchen, and the entrance to the labyrinth.”

“You think they have him under the Crawls, lad?” Spencer asked.

“I think it likely.”

Commander Krishnamurthy pulled his truncheon from his belt and nodded to Hoare to do the same.

“Move behind us, please, gentlemen,” he said. The poet and philosopher obeyed.

They crept on, reached the stairs, descended, and became aware of a low-pitched repetitive rumbling.

“It's Mrs. Picklethorpe's bloomin’ snorin’!” Spencer whispered.

A few steps later, voices came to them from the kitchen.

“Shhh,” Swinburne breathed. “Listen!”

“-knows the finances of the estate, so we need to keep the fool alive for the time being.”

The poet recognised the brash tones at once. It was Edward Kenealy.

“But can we make him cooperate?” came an unfamiliar voice. “He's a stubborn old sod.”

“He'll crack as soon as we get him near the diamonds again, don't you worry. He's very susceptible. No resistance at all. How's the doctor, Bogle?”