Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“No!” Mrs. Angell gulped. “I mean-that is to say-ooh er!” She turned a deep shade of red.

“Gentlemen, good lady,” Swinburne announced, “some of you have met, some of you haven't, so a quick who's who: this is Mrs. Iris Angell, Sir Richard's esteemed housekeeper; Detective Inspector William Trounce, one of Scotland Yard's finest; Mr. Herbert Spencer, our friendly neighbourhood philosopher; Lord Admiral Nelson, Richard's rather extraordinary valet; and Mr. Damien Burke and Mr. Gregory Hare, agents for the prime minister!”

A loud warble interrupted him: “Cross-eyed nitwits!”

“My apologies-and that is Pox, Sir Richard's newly acquired parakeet.”

Palmerston looked disdainfully at the colourful little bird, gazed in awe at the clockwork man, then turned to Swinburne and said: “You sent me a message. You said Captain Burton is out of action. Explain. Where is he?”

“Ah,” the poet answered. “You'd better come upstairs, Prime Minister. If the rest of you wouldn't mind waiting here, I'm sure Mrs. Angell will see to it that you're supplied with whatever refreshments take your fancy.”

“Of course, sir,” the housekeeper simpered, curtseying again in the prime minister's direction. She winced and held her hip.

Swinburne glanced at her and, despite his fatigue, managed a cheeky wink.

He ushered Lord Palmerston from the room and up two flights of stairs to the library. As they approached the door, Palmerston asked: “Is that music I hear?”

“Yes,” Swinburne said, laying his fingers on the door handle. “We rescued Richard two days ago. He was practically catatonic and repeated just one thing, over and over: Al-Masloub.”

“Which means?”

“We didn't know until we got him home. Mrs. Angell recognised it straightaway as the name of a musician Richard has over from time to time. We summoned the man, who arrived, spent a few minutes looking at our patient, went away again, and returned with two more musicians in tow. Since then, and without a moment's cease, this-”

He pushed open the door.

The library was filled with the swirling melodies and rhythms of an Arabian flute and drums. All the furniture had been shoved against the book-lined walls, and, in the middle of the floor, Sir Richard Francis Burton, dressed in a belted white robe and white pantaloons, his feet bare, and a tall fez upon his head, was spinning deliriously on the spot.

His arms were held out, the forearms poised vertically, the palm of his right hand directed at the ceiling, the palm of his left at the floor. His head was thrown back and his mouth and eyes were shut, as if in peaceful contemplation. There were droplets of sweat on his face-and he whirled and whirled!

Around and around, gyrating at considerable speed, in time with the drumbeat, he appeared entirely oblivious to their presence.

“Do you mean to tell me that His Majesty's agent has been spinning in circles for two days?” Palmerston huffed.

“Yes, Prime Minister, he has. It's the dance of the Dervish, of the Sufi mystic. I believe he's attempting to repair the damage our enemies did to him.”

Palmerston, his face as expressionless as ever, watched Burton for a few moments.

“Well,” he muttered. “He'd better pull himself together soon. He might be the only person in the country who can tell me exactly why our normally industrious labouring classes have decided to go the way of the damned French. In the meantime-”

Footsteps sounded as Burke and Hare pounded up the stairs.

“Prime Minister, please excuse the interruption,” Burke said, speaking rapidly and with his voice raised above the music. He turned to the poet: “Mr. Swinburne, when you recovered Sir Richard, did he have an odd-looking pistol in his possession?”

“The green thing?” the poet asked. “Yes, I found it in his jacket pocket. Is it a pistol? It doesn't look like one!”

“Where is it now?”

“In the top drawer of his main desk, by the windows.”

Burke turned to Hare. “If you would, Mr. Hare?”

With a nod, his colleague turned and headed back to the study.

“What's happening?” Palmerston snapped.

“A minute, if you please, sir,” Burke responded briskly. He leaned across and pulled the library door shut, muffling the melodic noise. He then indicated another door, just along the hall, and addressed Swinburne again: “What's in there?”

“It's Richard's storeroom.”

With a swift nod, Burke pushed past them, opened the door, and looked inside. He saw a room piled high with wooden boxes.

“Excellent. In you go, please, Prime Minister.”

“What the devil-!” Palmerston began.

Gregory Hare reappeared, with Burton's spine-shooter in his hand. He passed it to his colleague.

“Sir!” Burke's voice was filled with urgency. “If you recall, I advised you in the strongest possible terms that coming here was a grievous miscalculation. Sir Richard and his colleagues have made themselves known to the enemy forces. They are targets. You have knowingly placed yourself in the line of fire for no good reason except to satisfy your curiosity-”

“How dare you speak to me like th-”

Burke continued, raising his voice and speaking over the prime minister's objection. “What I feared most is now occurring. The street outside has just filled with wraiths. They caused your guards to shoot your outriders dead then turn their rifles upon themselves. We can only assume that this house is about to be attacked, isn't that so, Mr. Hare?”

“Quite right, Mr. Burke,” Gregory Hare answered.

“We must barricade ourselves inside,” Burke continued. “If it becomes necessary, Mr. Hare and I will act as your last line of defence.”

“I-” Palmerston said, but a thick arm was suddenly wrapped around his waist and Hare hoisted him off his feet, carried him past Burke and Swinburne, and plonked him into the storeroom.

“Unhand me, sir!” came his receding protest.

Burke turned to the poet: “I'm sorry, Mr. Swinburne, but Lord Palmerston's safety is my and Mr. Hare's primary duty. I have no choice but to leave you and your companions to defend this house as best you can. Besides which, we are somewhat hampered by our injuries. If our attackers make it past you, hopefully you will have weakened them enough for us to be able to deal with them.”

“You mean to make of us a forlorn hope?” Swinburne asked. “Ruthless bugger, aren't you?”

“You object?”

Swinburne grinned. “Not at all! This is just my cup of tea! Go! Barricade yourselves in. I'll rally the troops.”

“Thank you, sir. Um-” Burke looked at the cactus pistol in his hand “-I should keep hold of this but Mr. Hare and I are armed with revolvers and, under the circumstances-”

He passed the strange weapon to the poet, quickly explained its use, then turned away, entered the storeroom, and closed the door.

Swinburne let loose a breath and whispered: “Tally-ho!” He descended the stairs. As he reached the landing, he saw Mrs. Angell in the hallway below, carrying a coffee pot and cups on a tray.

There was a knock at the front door.

The housekeeper immediately put the tray down on the hall table and reached for the door handle.

“Don't!” Swinburne yelled.

It was too late. Even as she turned to look up at him, Mrs. Angell's fingers had twisted the doorknob.

The portal swung inward, pushed by a big bloated hand.

The old woman staggered backward and screamed.

A bulging mass of clothing blocked the threshold. Swinburne recognised it at once: the Tichborne Claimant!

The hideous head came ducking under the lintel and, as the hulking mass of blubbery flesh pushed through after it, Mrs. Angell dropped in a dead faint.