The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats

by Mark Hodder

  “It performs the same function?” Burton asked.

  “Yes, it does, and that might be the key.”

  “How so?”

  “The Field Amplifier hasn’t worked. One grain of diamond just doesn’t offer sufficient information for the apparatus to analyse. However, I’m pretty certain I can construct instruments that, if attached to three or four of these new probability calculators and positioned at widespread points around the city, could be used to triangulate the source of the transmission. It might lead us to the factory, or to Babbage, or to our missing people, or to all three.”

  “Or just to Rigby,” Trounce commented. “He’s in charge of the confounded things.”

  “I understand that,” Gooch countered, “but through this component they’re able to consult with one another over a distance, and no doubt he can direct them from afar, as well. With all the Special Patrol Group constables, that amounts to a lot of information whizzing back and forth. I’ll wager it has to be sorted by a central device, a powerful synthetic intelligence that can process it all before boosting the individual elements along the resonance existing between the flakes of silicate. Find that, and I’ll wager you’ll find Babbage fussing over it.”

  “The Orpheus brain?” Burton asked.

  “That’s my supposition.”

  Swinburne asked, “How many heads would you require in order to locate it?”

  “A minimum of three; more for greater accuracy.”

  “So you want us to go around decapitating mechanical policemen?”

  Gooch turned his metal palms upward. “That will be necessary, yes.”

  “Hoorah! Count me in!”

  Burton calmed his friend with a sharp gesture. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Daniel. How long will your instruments take to construct?”

  Gooch gave a four-armed shrug. “I only just had the idea. I haven’t designed them yet. I’ll need to experiment with this constable’s babbage. Give me a few days.”

  “In that case, I suggest we delay our beheading spree until you’re ready. When we make that move, we’ll be confirming ourselves as enemies of the state. Until then, I think it best we operate as stealthily as we can. In order to do that, I must first send Monty on a mission.”

  The big cabbie was at the other end of the catacomb, drinking coffee, smoking his pipe, and reading a newspaper. As Burton approached him, he caught a glimpse of the headline: CHINESE BOMB THREAT TO LIVERPOOL SHIPYARDS.

  Lies. The politics of fear mongering.

  A side headline declared: INEXPLICABLE DEATH OF KING’S SPIRITUALIST.

  “Monty, I have a job for you.”

  The task took five minutes to explain but all morning for Penniforth to complete. While he waited, Burton meditated in one of the bays. There was a contradiction at the heart of recent events that he couldn’t get to grips with. Babbage hated the working classes. Disraeli, by contrast, glorified them—mostly, the explorer suspected, because their existence gave stark definition to the upper classes. The prime minister was apparently bent on sharpening the contrast by nipping the emerging middle class in the bud. What, then, was in it for Babbage? Why was he cooperating with Young England?

  At a little after midday, Burton’s contemplation was interrupted by Penniforth’s return. He had Bram with him, and their arrival was announced by Pox, who was sitting on the youngster’s head.

  “Blundering dangle arms! Intolerable blots!”

  Burton, Swinburne, and Trounce joined their allies in the main vault.

  Penniforth, whose giant frame was weighed down by suitcases, hatboxes, and bags, placed the load upon the floor. “You were right, guv’nor. Your house is bein’ watched.”

  “We went a-sneaking through the mews, so we did,” Bram declared excitedly. “Hallo, Cap’n! Hallo, Mr. Swinburne! Hallo, Mr. Fogg! Cor! Did you get thumped?”

  “I did, lad,” Trounce confirmed. “And for the umpteenth time, I am not your Macallister Fogg fellow.”

  “O’ course not, sir!” Bram said. He tapped the side of his nose and gave the detective inspector an exaggerated wink.

  Trounce responded with a despairing sigh.

  “Sack of grease!” Pox commented.

  “We got everythin’ on your list,” Penniforth told Burton. “Mrs. Angell helped us to pack it. I think she sneaked in a pork pie.”

  Swinburne laughed. “Good old Mrs. A!”

  The cabbie lifted two long clothbound items. “I ’ope these are the right ones.”

  Taking them, Burton unwrapped one to reveal a shiny and oddly shaped sword, somewhat similar to a narrow question mark in form.

  “It’s a khopesh,” he said, in answer to Trounce’s enquiring expression. “A type of scimitar, evolved from an axe, and widely used by the Egyptians and Canaanites. Strong and sharp enough that—if swung with sufficient force—it’ll slice through the neck of a clockwork man.” He paused before adding, “I hope.”

  He put the weapons aside. “But we have some work to do before we go headhunting. Monty, Bram, get yourselves some lunch. Algy, William, help me with the luggage, will you?”

  The three of them dragged the bags, boxes, and cases along the passage to the bays they’d adopted as their bedrooms. Burton nodded toward a stone plinth. “Sit.”

  Swinburne hoisted himself onto it and sat with his feet swinging. Trounce settled next to him, looking puzzled. He watched as Burton opened a large carpetbag, then he leaned over and looked into it. “By Jove! Are we going to—?”

  “We are,” Burton said.

  A little under an hour later, Daniel Gooch uttered a cry of surprise as three complete strangers walked out into the main gallery.

  The tallest of the trio, whose complexion marked him as a native of a sunnier clime, was dressed in a pale-grey John Bull top hat with a matching knee-length frock coat, tightly buttoned up to the neck, dark trousers, and polished black boots. He had a monocle lodged in the socket of his left eye, possessed badly pockmarked cheeks, and wore his mustachios long, waxed, and twisted at the ends into very long upsweeping points.

  Doffing his hat, revealing that his hair was parted in the middle and slick with Macassar oil, he bowed extravagantly and said in a lilting accent, “Good day to you, sir. I am Count Palladino of Brindisi. It is my great pleasure to be visiting your country. You have met my companions?”

  At his side, a fat fellow with a thick beard, sunken eyes, and clothes that had seen better days, nodded a greeting and mumbled, “Isaiah Clutch. Metalworker. At your service.”

  The most diminutive of the three, a filthy, black-haired guttersnipe bedecked in rags, offered a broad smile—displaying chipped and rotten teeth—and croaked, “What ’o, matey! Slippery Ned Beesley’s me name, an’ chimley sweepin’s me game. Got a flue what wants a-scrubbin’?”

  Gooch stammered, “I—I—who are—are you—you surely aren’t—Sir Richard?”

  Count Palladino threw his head back and gave a bark of laughter. “Yes, Daniel, it’s me.”

  “Trounce,” Clutch grunted.

  “And me, Algernon,” Slippery Ned Beesley added, unnecessarily. “Ain’t we a picture, though?”

  “Good Lord! You’re unrecognisable!”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Burton said. “We need to be if we’re to move around freely.” He turned to address Trounce. “A risky mission for you, William. Go loiter in Whitehall and make contact with those of your colleagues you can still trust. Find out how many in Scotland Yard are disgruntled, how many we might rely on if—if—”

  If we turn traitor and fight against our own government.

  “If it comes to it,” Trounce finished.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll start with Spearing, Slaughter, and Honesty. Between them, the principal ranks are covered. By the time I’m finished, we’ll have a decent body of men standing by, that I guarantee.”

  “Good man.”

  To Swinburne, Burton said, “Algy, we’ve identified Young England as an attack upon the
middling classes. What we haven’t yet established is how the labouring majority view Disraeli’s actions. I want you to speak with Mr. Grub. Don’t reveal your identity. I think him more liable to speak freely with Slippery Ned Beesley, a person he’ll undoubtedly consider an equal.”

  “Or an inferior,” Swinburne interjected.

  “Quite so. Pick his brains. Take Bram with you. After that, the two of you should move around the street markets, the wharfs, and the rookeries. Blend in and take a measure of public opinion. Let’s find out where the people stand.”

  “And you, Count Palladino?” Gooch asked, with a tinge of humour.

  Burton gave a grim smile, took a revolver from a bench, checked that its chamber was full, and pocketed it. “I intend to sniff out some missing aristocrats.”

  A SOPHISTICATED MECHANISM WAXES PHILOSOPHICAL AND CAPTIVES ARE TAKEN

  GREEN PARK CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

  DO NOT SCALE THE FENCE. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

  Whenever London was simmering in its own gravy, the roads became impossible for the average vehicle owner to navigate. Those that attempted it tended to meet each other rather too abruptly, such encounters invariably being characterised by the sound of crunching metal, hissing steam, and passionately delivered language of a particularly colourful variety.

  Only cab drivers and criminals enjoyed the fog. For cabbies, the thinned traffic came as a blessing, and the pall proved no inconvenience at all, since, as Montague Penniforth was again demonstrating, these men had imprinted permanently upon their minds a tremendously detailed map of the city whilst also possessing an uncannily accurate sense of distance and direction.

  Thus it was that “Count Palladino” was transported without incident or delay from Norwood to the British Library and, from there, a little later, to Duchess Street, off Portland Place.

  The landau trundled away. Penniforth would wait near Trafalgar Square.

  Burton stood on the pavement outside the grandiose house and peered back the way he’d come, wondering whether the cab had been followed. He thought it very unlikely. Despite that the summer sun was somewhere overhead, making the upper layers of fog glow, visibility was terrible. He doubted anyone could have picked up his trail and was as certain as he could be that the Norwood hideaway remained a secret and wasn’t being watched. In the dim grey light, through suspended particles of ash and slowly rolling cloud, he saw an old woman smoking a pipe and pushing a wheelbarrow, a stray dog running across the road with a dead rat hanging from its mouth, and a street crab—an automated cleaning machine—lumbering along with steam pluming from its funnels.

  He faced the building. Number two. It was just past four o’clock in the afternoon, but the ground floor rooms were brightly lit.

  One of them, he hoped, was occupied by the owner.

  Of the men on Gladstone’s list, Burton had, at the library, looked into the background of only three, they being Henry Thomas Hope, Lord John Manners, and Alexander Baillie-Cochrane; the surviving members—along with Disraeli—of the original Young England movement. Of them, Hope had immediately excited Burton’s interest, for the records had revealed his mother to be the Honourable Louisa de la Poer Beresford, who was a cousin of Henry Beresford, the third Marquess of Waterford. Before his death, the marquess had been very much involved in the Spring Heeled Jack affair, albeit in a different version of history. Time, the explorer had learned, was filled with meaningful patterns, echoes, and synchronous occurrences. When recognised, such correspondences should not be ignored. The family connection was, to Burton, akin to a signpost bearing the legend START HERE! He’d abandoned further research and come straight to Hope’s residence.

  Now, moving forward, he mounted the five front steps, paused at the door, and yanked the bellpull. After half a minute, he heard bolts being pulled back. The door opened, and an elderly footman, with his chin tilted upward, looked down his long pointed nose and creaked, “Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?”

  “Perhaps so,” Burton replied, adopting the traces of an Italian accent. “I wish to see Mr. Hope. Might he spare me a few minutes? I am Count Palladino of Brindisi.”

  “And the nature of your business, sir?”

  “A social visit. You are—?”

  “Bellamy, sir. May I ask whether you are expected?”

  “I must confess that I am not.”

  “I see.” Bellamy blinked disapprovingly then stepped back and gestured to his left. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the parlour, I shall enquire as to the master’s availability.”

  “I’m much obliged.”

  Burton entered the house and walked into the indicated room. It was of a modest size and very cluttered with pictures, ornaments, and knickknacks. Choosing not to sit, he crossed to the unlit fireplace, stood between the two armchairs arranged around it, and waited, facing the chamber with his hands held behind his back. He was amused to see on a table, among various magazines, an issue of The Baker Street Detective. Bram Stoker, it appeared, was not the only enthusiast of the adventures of Macallister Fogg.

  Five minutes passed, each of them measured by a loudly ticking clock on the mantelpiece.

  The door finally opened.

  A clockwork man strode in. It was very highly polished and had a coat of arms engraved upon its chest plate.

  Extending a hand, it said, “Count Palladino, I understand? Good day to you, sir. I am Flywheel, Mr. Hope’s private secretary. May I enquire as to the reason for your visit?”

  Burton hesitated—he’d never been offered a handshake by a brass man before—then clasped the metal digits and, as he released them, said in a polite tone, “I don’t mean to intrude upon your master’s privacy nor impose upon his valuable time. I happened to be passing this way and suddenly recalled that my friend, Lord Manners, mentioned Mr. Hope to me some little time ago. I thought I might introduce myself.”

  “Lord Manners? I see. Mentioned him in relation to what, if I might ask?”

  The contraption spoke in such a natural fashion that, for a moment, Burton forgot to reply. He was amazed by the casual sentence construction, the smoothly articulated words, and the almost human-sounding modulations. This machine was obviously far more advanced than any he’d so far encountered.

  “We were discussing Young England, both in its earlier incarnation and in its present. He also brought it to my attention that Mr. Hope is related to the de la Poer Beresford family.”

  Flywheel was silent for nearly thirty seconds and stood so motionless that Burton began to wonder whether it had wound down. Then it said, “Your English is extremely good, Count Palladino.”

  “Thank you. I was educated at Oxford.”

  “That explains it. My master is a Cambridge man. I regret to inform you that he is indisposed. He has taken to his bed with a case of influenza and can’t possibly receive you at present.”

  “Ah. I’m sorry to hear that. He’s asleep then?”

  “He’s reading. However, I’m authorised to speak on his behalf and am privy to all of his affairs. If you have any questions, I can probably answer them. Please sit. Would you care for a cigar? There’s a box on the table, there. Havanas. Please help yourself. You are interested in the Beresfords? May I ask why?”

  Burton sat and took one of the Havanas. He lit it, drew on it, and watched through the exhaled smoke as, to his utter astonishment, Flywheel settled in the opposite chair, crossed one metal leg over the other, and leaned back with its hands resting in its lap.

  Acting on impulse, he asked, “Have you a Mark Three babbage?”

  “A Mark Four.”

  “I didn’t know there was a fourth model. When was it developed?”

  “Mine was activated on the nineteenth of October last year, so prior to that date, but I don’t know precisely when. The Beresfords?”

  Burton gave a casual wave of a hand. “Oh, nothing. Just that I’ve heard that the third Marquess of Waterford was something of a character.”

  “To put
it mildly. Mr. Hope has a very low opinion of that particular relative. The man was, I have heard him say, a cad of the first order, and one whose passing he doesn’t regret one iota.”

  “Is that so? I wonder if having such an individual in the family encouraged Mr. Hope’s one time support for the concept of noblesse oblige, as was promoted by the original Young England.”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “It’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  “To be related to a disreputable man?”

  “To reverse one’s opinion so completely. To make the current-day Young England the polar opposite of its predecessor.”

  Burton watched as, visible through the topmost opening in Flywheel’s face, the machine’s tiny cogs revolved.

  “My good Count,” the clockwork man said, “is it not logical to adjust one’s opinion in line with new information as it comes to light?”

  “I should say so, yes. To what information do you refer, in this instance?”

  “To Darwin’s theory of natural selection, which makes it plain—does it not?—that in supporting its weaker members, a species does itself a disservice.”

  Darwin! As was also invoked by Disraeli in a very similar manner!

  “I don’t think that’s an interpretation Mr. Darwin would support. Besides which, by what criteria is weakness measured?”

  “Need it be measured at all? Surely it is apparent that human society functions to allow the strong to rise to power while those of lesser ability remain in positions of servitude.”

  Burton flicked cigar ash into the hearth. He uttered a little grunt of dissent. “I perceive two problems with that argument. Firstly, our—by which I mean the empire’s—current form of society is not the only system available to the human species. The Africans and Orientals, for example, have very different conventions to our own. We might say that ours, which is termed by some a capitalist democracy, allows for a certain sort of person to rise through its ranks, but that person’s advancement is due to his or her abilities existing within an environment conducive to them. The same person, if placed in Abyssinia or Japan, might fail utterly. Which brings me to my second point: Darwin makes it plain that any quality whatsoever can be counted a strength if it is advantageous in a particular circumstance. Compassion is a considerable handicap in a financial institution but a great gift in a medical one. Context is everything.”