by Mark Hodder
“Remind you of anything?” he asked.
“It looks like someone's been pressing flat irons into the mud,” the poet observed. “My goodness, those are deep prints. Whoever made them must have been very heavy. Ovals, not shoe-shaped. I say! The clockwork man!”
“Not the one in Trafalgar Square,” Burton corrected. “It had clean feet and these prints were made while it's been standing beside the column. There were other clockwork men here-three of them-and less than fifteen minutes ago, I should think. Look who was with them!”
Burton moved his lantern. The circle of light swept across the mud and settled on a line of big, widely spaced, very deep oblong prints. Who- or whatever had made them obviously possessed three legs.
Swinburne recognised them at once. “Brunel!” he cried. “Isambard Kingdom Brunel! The Steam Man!”
“Yes. See how deep his prints are by the well? He obviously waited there while the brass men went down. I wonder what they were up to?”
Burton stepped over the fence's fallen planks and turned to his assistant. “I'm going to have a look. You run back to that Spencer fellow. Give him another thruppence and ask him if he saw anything unusual around here, then come back and wait for Trounce and Constable Bhatti. Go! We mustn't waste any more time!”
Swinburne raced off.
Burton crouched, lowering his centre of gravity to improve his balance on the slippery surface. He began to inch downward, bracing himself with his cane, holding the lantern high. The rain hissed around him. He wondered whether he was doing the right thing. Brunel and his clockwork companions were getting away-but from what? What had they been up to?
He'd covered half the short distance to the well when his feet shot out from under him. He slapped down onto his back and went slithering uncontrollably toward the mouth of the shaft, slewing sideways until his hip thudded against the top of the ladder which, thankfully, was bolted to the side of the well. He felt his shoulders swerving over the sodden clay and was propelled headfirst into the opening. Without thinking, he let go of his cane and threw out a hand. It closed over a rung and he gripped hard as his body turned in the air, swung down, and slammed against the ladder. The force of the impact knocked the wind out of him and loosened his hold. He fell before catching another rung. Pain lanced through his shoulder. His cane clacked onto a solid surface somewhere below.
He scrambled for a foothold, secured himself, and hung on, shaking. An involuntary groan issued from his lips.
He felt weak and ill. Despite the cold weather, beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead.
The lantern went out.
Shifting to better secure himself, he gave the device a twist. It spluttered back into life and he lowered it past his knee, revealing a brick walkway not far below. A river flowed beside it, the brown surface heaving and frothing as it sped past.
Burton descended with water pouring around him from the pit above. He stepped off the ladder and flexed his arm, winced, then picked up his cane and flashed the light around, finding himself in a small section of newly built brick-lined tunnel. Farther down in both directions, it gave way to a soft-walled, insecure-looking passage which, for as far as he could see-which wasn't very far-had been shored up with timber.
The walkway ran alongside the river and disappeared into the darkness. On it, three sets of muddy oval-shaped footprints trailed back and forth.
He followed them.
The course of the river was by no means straight but the explorer felt certain that it remained more or less beneath Saint Martin's on its way to the Thames.
Moments later, he came to a hole cut into the wall on his left. Big lumps of stone were scattered around it and a pile of rubble blocked the path beyond. A glance at the ground assured him that the three mechanical men had passed this way, so he entered and stepped through a short stretch of roughly cut tunnel.
It broke through into the unlit and damp basement of a building, empty but for broken pieces of packing crates, a rusty iron bedstead, and an old chest of drawers. Smeared mud cut a channel across the dusty floor to an open door and up the stairs beyond.
Treading softly, the king's agent ascended. There was another door at the top of the stairs, which he opened carefully. His lantern illuminated what appeared to be a workshop. There was a large safe in the corner. Its door had been wrenched off and lay, warped out of shape, on the floor nearby. The safe was empty.
He passed through to a hallway and entered the next room, which he found was at the front of the building. He recognised it at once. He'd seen it through a security grille. It was Brundleweed's-the diamond dealer's shop.
He returned to the safe and examined it.
“Emptied out!” he said, softly. “But why would Brunel-the most lauded engineer in the Empire-steal diamonds? It doesn't make sense!”
The public believed that Isambard Kingdom Brunel had died from a stroke in 1859. They regarded him as one of the greatest Englishmen ever to have lived. Little did they know that he'd actually retreated into a mobile life-maintaining mechanism, and, from it, still directed the Technologists’ various projects.
“What the devil is he playing at?” Burton muttered.
There was nothing further he could do here-and the longer he remained, the farther away the Steam Man and his three clockwork assistants would get.
He turned and ran back the way he'd come. It took but a few moments to reach the ladder and climb it.
Someone called to him as he poked his head out into the rain: “Burton! Burton! Hurry up, man!”
“Trounce? Is that you? Give me a hand, will you?”
“Wait there!”
He squinted through the downpour, saw figures milling about, sliding down the slope toward him, and was surprised when Spencer the philosopher emerged from the rain.
“Hallo, Boss! Reach up an’ we'll ’ave you out in a jiffy!”
“Hello, Mr. Spencer! Here, grab the end of my cane!”
He extended his stick toward the vagrant, who clutched it tightly.
Burton clambered up and gripped Spencer's wrist. He saw that the beggar was held by Trounce, who in turn was held by Bhatti.
Swinburne, who wasn't holding anybody, was jumping up and down on the other side of the fence, screeching: “Don't let go of him! Don't let go!”
The chain of men pulled Burton up out of the pit, over the fallen fence, and onto the pavement.
“By Jove!” Trounce observed. “You're a sight!”
Burton looked down at himself. He was caked with mud from top to toe. He felt as bad as he looked, but, ignoring the ache burrowing through his bones, he twisted off the lantern, thrust it into his pocket, and reported his discovery: “It's a diamond robbery. They tunnelled into Brundleweed's from the side of the underground river.”
“Strewth!” Constable Bhatti gasped. “Old Brundleweed took a big delivery a couple of days ago. The crooks must have made off with a fortune!”
“And they're heading west!” Trounce declared.
“How do you know that?” Burton asked.
“Mr. Spencer saw them!” Swinburne revealed.
Burton turned to the vagrant. “Explain!”
“There were one of ’em whoppin’ great pantechnicons parked here, Boss. One of the ones what's drawn by the jumbo dray horses. I didn't see nothin’ goin’ on, but it galloped off at a rare old pace just a few moments afore you arrived.”
“We heard it!” Burton confirmed.
“And it passed us on Orange Street!” Trounce said. “Heaven knows where it is now. We'll never catch up with it!”
“Are you joking?” Burton cried. “How can we miss a horse that size? It's a veritable mountain!”
“True, but a fast-moving one that might have headed off in any direction by now!”
The king's agent turned suddenly and started to race away along Mildew Street.
“Follow me!”
“What? Hey! Captain Burton!” the detective inspector shouted after the retreating
figure. “Damn it! Come on, Bhatti!”
The two policemen took off after the king's agent. Swinburne followed, and behind him came Spencer, who'd decided to stick with the group in the hope that another thruppence might be forthcoming.
They dashed into Orange Street, and Trounce hadn't gone far before he spotted Burton ahead, hammering on a door and bellowing, “Open up in the name of the king!”
The detective inspector recognised the building. He'd checked it just a few minutes before: SPARTA, the automated animal training centre.
In a flash, he realised what Burton was up to.
“This is the police!” he hollered officiously. “Open the door!”
He heard a bolt being drawn back.
Swinburne and Spencer arrived, panting.
The portal opened slightly and an eye was put to the crack.
“I was asleep!” a female voice protested.
“Madam, I'm Detective Inspector William Trounce of Scotland Yard. These are my associates and we need your help!”
The door opened wider, revealing a young woman clad in dressing gown, nightcap, and slippers. Her face was strong, oval-shaped, brown-eyed.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you any trained swans on the premises?” Burton asked brusquely.
“Yes. No. That is to say, not fully but six are close enough. Trained, I mean.”
“Then I'm afraid we must commandeer four of them.”
“Five,” Spencer corrected.
The woman looked astonished, her eyes flicking from Burton to Trounce and back again.
“Please, ma'am,” Trounce said in a softer tone. “This is an emergency. You will be compensated.”
She stepped back. “You'd better come in. My name is Mayson, Isabella Mayson.”
They entered.
Miss Mayson lit an oil lamp and held it up.
“Merciful heavens! What happened to you!” she gasped upon noticing Burton's mud-encrusted clothing.
“Would you mind if I explained later, Miss Mayson? There really isn't any time to spare.”
“Very well. This way, please.” She lifted an umbrella from a stand and led them along the passage. “I'm afraid you'll have to pass the parakeets to get to the swans.”
Bhatti grinned and said, “We policemen are used to a little abuse. I take it they've not found a solution to the problem yet?”
“Through this room, gentlemen. The cages are beyond. No, Constable-um-?”
“Bhatti, Miss.”
“No, Constable Bhatti, they haven't. Wait a moment.”
She stopped at a door, fiddled with a key ring, located the appropriate key, and fitted it into the lock.
“Brace yourselves,” she advised, with a wry smile.
She opened the door and they all stepped through.
Insults exploded from the stacked cages encircling the room: “Piss-guzzlers! Cheese-brains! Stench-makers! Cross-eyed baboons! Drooling fumblers! Flush-faced sots! Blubberous flab-guts! Witless remnants! Boneheaded contortionists! Sheep-tickling louts! Maggotous duffers! Ugly buffoons! Slime-lickers!”
It was a deafening roar, and it didn't let up for a moment as they traversed the long chamber toward the door at its far end.
“I'm sorry!” Miss Mayson shouted at the top of her voice. “Take it on the chin!”
Swinburne giggled.
Messenger parakeets had been one of the first practical applications of the Eugenicists’ science to be adopted by the British public. A person only had to visit a post office to give one of their birds a message, name, and address, and the parakeet would fly off to deliver the communication. No one but the Eugenicists knew how the colourful little creatures found the addresses, but they always did.
There was one problem.
The parakeets cursed and insulted everyone they encountered. Invariably, messages were liberally peppered with expletives not put there by the sender. Nevertheless, the system proved popular, especially as some of the birds displayed a rather amusing talent for creating totally meaningless words that, nevertheless, sounded insulting. These “new insults” were all the rage at Society events. Swinburne himself had recently been called a “blibbering chub-fluffer” by a parakeet delivering an invitation to a poetry reading at Lord Haverleigh's. He'd laughed about it for days. You are cordially invited-you blibbering chub-fluffer-to an evening of stinking poetry and abysmal piss wine -
The foul-mouthed birds demonstrated an issue that had troubled eugenics from the very start. Whatever modification the scientists bred into a species, it always brought with it an unexpected side effect. The giant dray horses, for example, had no control over their bladders or bowels and were overproductive in both departments. This had proven a serious problem in London's already filthy streets until the Engineering branch of the Technologists invented the automated mechanical cleaners, popularly known as “litter-crabs,” to tackle the issue.
“Hag-kissers! Slack-jaws! Dirt-gobblers! Mumblebums! Dolts! Filthy blackguards! Bulging scumbags! Gusset-sniffers! Gibbering loonies! Puppy-munchers!”
Trailing behind Miss Mayson, the men reached the other side of the room. The young woman unlocked a door, threw it open, and ushered them through. The portal slammed shut behind them and she leaned against it, opening the umbrella. “That's quite enough of that, I think! My apologies, gentlemen.”
They stood in a very spacious rain-swept yard beside a row of cages, each containing an upright wheel. In each wheel there was a dog-all greyhounds-sprinting at top speed. There must have been at least twenty of them, and the rumble of the spinning wheels drowned out even the noise of the rain.
The greyhounds were known as runners, and they formed the other half of the British Postal Service. Where the parakeets communicated spoken messages, the dogs delivered letters, racing from door to door with the missives held gently between their teeth. In fact, they were unable to stop running, and even when they arrived at a delivery destination they jogged on the spot until the letter they carried was taken. They were also voracious eaters, and any person using the service was obliged to feed them.
“They've just gone to sleep,” Miss Mayson said, gesturing toward the animals.
“They run in their sleep?” Swinburne asked wonderingly.
“Yes, which is why I had the wheels put inside their cages. It's better than having them racing around the yard. The swans are over there.”
She indicated the far end of the enclosure, where nine breathtakingly huge birds stood in high-roofed pens. Their heads were poised, about fifteen feet up, at the top of elegantly curved necks. Their beady eyes watched the group as it approached them.
“Don't worry. They're almost tame.”
“Almost?” Trounce asked, doubtfully. “Somehow, I don't find that very comforting.”
“If they were any wilder, they'd bite your head off before you could blink. They're aggressive by nature.”
Trounce smoothed his mustache with his fingers.
“But four are tame enough to fly, yes?” Burton asked.
“Five,” Spencer added.
“Yes, sir, though you might struggle a bit. They're a touch headstrong.”
“Let's get them buckled up. We have to work fast.”
Miss Mayson crossed to a shed from which she produced harnesses and big folded box kites. Then she picked up a long, thin wooden cane, returned to the pens, and used it to drive out five of the enormous white birds.
“Down!” she commanded, while slapping one of the swans on its side with the rod. It obligingly squatted, and, while Spencer held the umbrella over her, she showed the men how to attach the long reins to the base of the bird's neck, passing them over its back. Swinburne, who'd flown swans before, assisted her by buckling the ends of lengthy leather straps to its legs and clipping the other ends to one of the box kites which Burton and Trounce had unfolded.
While they worked, the king's agent instructed his companions: “Look out for litter-crabs.”
“Why litter-cra
bs?” Trounce asked in a puzzled tone.
“I noticed that the end of Saint Martin's hadn't been cleaned,” Burton responded. “Now I know why. The litter-crabs were tempted away from it by the mega-dray. You know how the contraptions tend to follow behind the horses, cleaning up the manure. I dare say they're still on its trail!”
“Good thinking, Captain!” the policeman exclaimed.
Miss Mayson helped Constable Bhatti into a kite. He sat on the canvas seat, slipped his boots through the stirrups, and took the reins. The woman showed him how to control the bird.
A few minutes later, all five men were in position.
Miss Mayson stepped back. “Half a mo!” she cried. “Wait there-I have an idea!”
She ran back along the yard and into the training centre.
“What's she up to?” Burton grumbled truculently, but even as he spoke she reappeared and hurried over to them.
She held a small blue and yellow parakeet in her hand.
“All messenger parakeets are identified by a postcode,” she said. “This is POX JR5. She's one of the new breed. As long as she knows you, she'll be able to find you. She doesn't even need your address. You can use her to communicate between the kites. She'll keep up with the swans-she's the swiftest of all my birds. Tell her your names!” She held the parakeet out to each of the men in turn.
“Captain Richard Burton.”
“Odorous thug!” the bird whistled.
“Detective Inspector William Trounce.”
“Ponderous buffoon!” it cheeped.
“Algernon Charles Swinburne.”
“Illiterate bum-pincher!” it cackled.
“Constable Shyamji Bhatti.”
“Nurdle-thwacker!” it squawked.
“Herbert Spencer.”
“Angel-faced beauty,” it crooned.
“My goodness!” Miss Mayson exclaimed. “Was that a compliment?”
Burton blew out a breath. “Please,” he said, “there's no time for this!”
She gave a small nod and placed the parakeet on Burton's shoulder. It hunkered down and he felt its little claws sinking into the soggy cloth of his overcoat.
“Good luck!” the young woman said, stepping back. “Constable, call in tomorrow and tell me all about it!”