Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“Mr. Swinburne,” he said. “You are a god-damned bloody genius.” He addressed Burton: “The African stone?”

“You might have problems securing it,” the explorer warned. “Quite apart from the difficulties Africa itself presents, we know that nothing can fly over the region where the diamond is undoubtedly located. That suggests to me that some force of mind is at work, interfering with machinery in much the same way that Rasputin was able to jam guns.”

“So someone is guarding the Eye?”

“Someone or something, yes. And there's another problem.”

“What?”

“I think it highly probable that Lieutenant John Speke is preparing a Prussian expedition to the region.”

With his top hat set at a jaunty angle and his cane swinging, Sir Richard Francis Burton strode along Gloucester Place.

A Folks’ Wagon beetle scuttled past, belching vapour. A little boy, sitting on its rear bench, looked at Burton as the vehicle went past and poked out his tongue. The king's agent glared at him, snarled, then crossed his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, and blew a raspberry. The youngster laughed delightedly and waved.

A horse shied away from the steam-powered insect and overturned a vegetable stall. Onions and potatoes spilled onto the road and bounced across the cobbles. Shouts and curses followed the giant beetle as it rounded a corner and scurried out of sight.

“Wotcha, ‘andsome,” crooned a streetwalker from a doorway. “Fancy a bit of ‘ow's yer father?”

Burton winked at her, flipped her a tuppenny bit, but kept walking.

Up ahead, a steam-horse emitted a clangourous racket, veered to the right, and crashed into the side of a tavern. An elderly man emerged from the cab behind the engine and shouted: “Great heavens, man! You knocked the stuffing out of me!”

“It's the bleedin’ back axle, guv'nor!” the driver explained. “Third time it's broken this week!”

Burton turned into Montagu Place.

“Hey up, Cap'n! How's it diddlin’?” came a hail.

“It's diddling very well, thank you, Mr. Grub. How's business?”

“Awful!”

“The chestnut season is almost upon us. I'm sure that'll improve matters.”

“P'raps, Cap'n. P'raps. You been to see his nibs again?”

“The prime minister? Yes, I was summoned.”

“Well, I ‘ope you told ‘im that the lot o’ the common man ain't no bed o’ roses.”

“I always mention it, Mr. Grub.”

“An’ he does bugger all about it! Bloody politicians!”

“A breed apart,” Burton noted.

“That's it in a nutshell, Cap'n!”

They paused while a rotorship roared noisily overhead. Mr. Grub shaded his eyes and looked up at the enormous vessel. “What's that what's wrote on the bottom of it?” he shouted.

Burton, who knew the street vendor was illiterate, said: “It is rather hard to make out, isn't it? I think it says: Make a new life in India. Space, spice, sunshine, and all the tea you can drink!”

The mighty ship slid away over the rooftops.

“You've been to India, ain'tcha, Cap'n? Would you recommend it?”

“It has its attractions.”

“But not for the likes o’ me, I suppose. I reckons I'm better off ‘ere on me own little corner of good old Blighty! Got me own patch, ain't I! What more can a man arsk for?”

“Quite so, Mr. Grub. Good day to you!”

“An’ to you, Cap'n!” said Grub, touching the peak of his cap.

Burton strode on.

As he neared his front door, he heard: “Read all about it! Lincoln declares slaves free in Confederate States! Read all about it! Emancipation for slaves in America!”

The king's agent whistled in wonder. He spotted little Oscar Wilde and called him over.

“Big news, eh, Quips?”

“Aye, that it is, sir!” The boy exchanged a newspaper for coins.

Burton read out the headline: “Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation. Well, well! That'll make things difficult for Pam! It looks to me as if America's president is every bit as cunning as our own prime minister!”

“We have really everything in common with America nowadays,” said Quips. “Except, of course, language.”

The king's agent chuckled. “Emancipation!” he announced triumphantly. “I can't say I'll be one whit sad to see that dreadful trade banished. If America is intent on becoming civilised, then Lincoln's proclamation has just taken it a good deal closer to achieving that goal!”

Three harvesters stalked past on their tall legs, each with crated goods swinging in netting below their bodies. The second of them had somehow developed a limp, and as it thudded past, its damaged leg made a rhythmic complaint: creak-ker-chang, creak-ker-chang, creak-ker-chang.

Burton recalled Sir Charles Babbage's hatred of noise.

“The fact is, Captain,” said Quips, “that civilisation requires slaves. The Greeks were quite right there. Unless there are slaves to do the ugly, horrible, uninteresting work, culture and contemplation become almost impossible. Human slavery is wrong, insecure, and demoralising. On mechanical slavery, on the slavery of the machine, the future of the world depends.”

The famous explorer watched the three huge mechanised insects striding away. People scattered from their path. Voices were raised in anger, fists shaken.

“Maybe so, young ‘un. Maybe so.”

He bade the urchin farewell and mounted the steps of his home, glancing up at the boards that covered the hole where his study window used to be. The builders were due tomorrow to effect repairs.

“William Trounce is upstairs,” Mrs. Angell informed him as he entered the hallway.

“You're back!”

“I am, Sir Richard. And a good thing, too. I don't know why, but I've been under the impression that you promised to have the place clean and tidy. I suppose all the sea air must have gone to my head and filled me with funny notions.”

“I'm sorry, Mother. There's been a great deal happening. I haven't stopped!”

“Have you made us safe?”

“Yes. The Tichborne business is over and done with.”

“Good. Get yourself upstairs, then. I'll fetch some cold cuts and pickles for you and your flat-footed friend.”

Burton leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek. “Angell by name, angel by nature. What would I do without you?”

He bounded up the stairs, past the wrecked study, and on to the library.

“Trounce, old man!” he declared as he entered. “It is undoubtedly a splendid day!”

“Gibber-mouth!” Pox squawked from his perch.

The Scotland Yard man rose from a chair, put a book aside, and shook Burton's hand in greeting.

“Thank goodness you're here!” he exclaimed. “I've had to bear the brunt of it all by myself. I don't think I've ever been insulted so assiduously-and that's saying something for a policeman!”

“Sit down. Take a brandy. Smoke a cigar,” said Burton, throwing himself into an armchair.

Trounce sat and squinted at him suspiciously. “By Jove, you almost look happy! I didn't know that infernal face of yours was capable of such an expression!”

“I'm full of good tidings! Brunel has designed a new and more efficient voice-producing instrument-no more of that awful ding-donging-and, at this very moment, he's fitting one to Herbert Spencer. Our clockwork philosopher will be speaking by the end of the day!”

Trounce clapped his hands together. “That's tremendous! What's he going to do with himself? It must be rather awkward, being mechanical!”

Burton produced a cheroot and applied a lucifer to it. “He wants Admiral Nelson's old job-wants to be my valet. Says he doesn't trust anyone else to keep him fully wound. And he wants to write; says he's never had such clarity of thought and already has three volumes completed in his head-he just needs to scribble ’em down. If he uses my autoscribe, he'll be knocking them out at twenty to the dozen!”