by Mark Hodder
“Words? What words?”
“Any! It doesn't matter!”
The constable took a small screwdriver from his pocket, turned to the clockwork figure, unscrewed the small porthole in its “forehead,” and used the tool to click down one of the small switches inside.
“The next voice you hear,” he told the device, “will be the only voice you obey unless it instructs you otherwise.”
He turned and nodded to Burton.
Rather self-consciously, the famous explorer cleared his throat: “I-er-I am Richard Burton and, apparently, you are now my valet.”
The brass man turned its head slightly until it appeared to be looking straight at Burton.
It saluted.
“That's its way of acknowledging your command,” said Bhatti. He reached into the porthole and flipped the switch back, then closed the little glass door and started to screw it into place.
“One moment, Constable!” Burton interrupted. “If you are all agreeable, I'd like the device set to accept commands from everyone present, and Mrs. Angell, too.”
“You're sure?” Trounce asked.
Burton nodded and pulled a cord that hung beside the fireplace. It rang a bell in the basement, summoning the housekeeper.
When she arrived, he told her about the new valet, and Bhatti went through the process again with her, with Trounce, and with Swinburne.
Mrs. Angell left the study, a bewildered expression on her face, while Bhatti joined the others around the fireplace and lit a pipe. He watched, smiling, as Burton moved over to the mechanism, looked it up and down, tapped its chest, and examined the little cogs that revolved in its head.
“Useful!” the king's agent muttered. “Very useful! Might I train it as a fencing partner?”
“Certainly!” Bhatti answered. “Though you'll probably find it too fast an opponent!”
Burton raised his eyebrows.
“Incidentally,” the constable added, “it'll need winding once a day, and, if I may suggest, you should name it. A name will make it easier to issue orders.”
“Ah, yes, I see what you mean.”
Burton stood in front of his new valet and addressed it: “Do you recognise my voice?”
The brass man saluted.
“Your name is-Admiral Lord Nelson!”
Another salute.
Burton's guests laughed.
“Bravo!” Swinburne cheered.
The king's agent turned to the policemen. “Thank you, Detective Inspector Trounce, Constable Bhatti-it's a magnificent gift! And now I propose that we bring the case of the clockwork man of Trafalgar Square to a close by giving my valet his first order.”
Trounce nodded encouragement.
“Admiral Nelson!” Sir Richard Francis Burton commanded. “Serve the drinks!”
The drinks were duly served.
Later that night, the king's agent found himself unable to sleep. A question was bothering him. He offered it to the darkness: “Whatever became of the genuine Choir Stones?”
I t was the first Monday of April, 1862. Five weeks after the death of Sir Charles Babbage.
A hiss, a clatter, and a sound like a large bung being pulled from a jar announced the arrival of a canister in the device on Sir Richard Francis Burton's desk.
Fidget raised his head from the hearthrug, barked, whimpered, then went back to sleep.
The maid, fifteen-year-old Elsie Carpenter, put down her broom, left the study, ran up the stairs, past the bedrooms, up the next staircase, and knocked on the library door.
Exotic music was coming from the room beyond.
“Come!” a voice called.
She entered and curtseyed.
Burton, wrapped in his jubbah -the loose robe he'd worn during his famed pilgrimage to Mecca-sat cross-legged on the floor amid a pile of books. He had a turban wound around his head and was smoking a hookah. The ends of his slippers curled to points.
He'd shaved off his forked beard some days ago and now sported long, exotic mustachios, which drooped to either side of his mouth. The new style made him appear younger and, in Elsie's opinion, rather more dashing.
There was another man in the library, squatting in a corner, who was a good deal less prepossessing than her master. Elderly, brown, and skinny, he wore a voluminous white and yellow striped robe and a tall fez. He was playing a nay -the long Arabian flute-the tones of which were hauntingly liquid and melodic.
Burton nodded at the man, who responded by laying down his instrument.
“Thank you, al-Masloub. Your talent shines ever more brightly as the years pass. Take what you need from the sideboard, and blessings be upon you.”
The old man stood, bowed, and murmured: “ Barak Allahu feekem. ”
He moved to a heavy piece of furniture to the right of the door and opened the small, intricately carved wooden box that stood upon it. From this he extracted a few coins, before silently slipping past Elsie and out of the room.
“What is it, Miss Elsie?” Burton asked.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, curtseying for a second time. “Sorry to dis-disperupt your music, but a message just arrived in the thingamajig.”
“Thank you. And you mean disrupt.”
“That's right, sir. Disperupt.”
The maid bobbed again, backed out of the room, ran down the stairs, retrieved her broom, and was out of the study before Burton got there. She descended to the basement and entered the kitchen.
“All swept clean as a whistle, ma'am,” she told Mrs. Angell.
“Did you dust the bookshelves?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And the mantelpiece?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And that big old African spear?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And did you polish the swords?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And beat the cushions?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And what about the doorknobs?”
“You can see your face in 'em, ma'am.”
“Good girl. Take a piece of fruitcake from the tin and have a rest. You've earned it.”
“Thank you, ma'am.”
Elsie took her slice of cake, put it on a plate, and settled on a stool.
“By the way, ma'am, the musical shriek has left and the master's got a message in the thingamajig.”
“Sheik,” the housekeeper corrected. She sighed. “Oh dear. I'm convinced that contraption only ever delivers trouble!”
She turned to the clockwork man, who was standing at the table, peeling potatoes. “Attend Sir Richard, please, Lord Nelson.”
The valet laid down his knife and saluted, wiped his fingers on a cloth, and marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the study. He entered and moved to the bureau between the windows, standing motionless beside it, awaiting orders.
Burton was by the fireplace.
“Listen to this,” he said, absently. “It's from Palmerston.”
He read from the note in his hand:
Investigate the claimant to the Tichborne title.
The king's agent sighed. “I was hoping to avoid all that blessed nonsense!”
He looked up, saw his valet, and said: “Oh, it's you. Lay out my day suit, would you? I think I'll drop in on old Pouncer Trounce, see what he knows about the affair.”
Half an hour later, Burton stepped out of 14 Montagu Place and strolled in the direction of Whitehall. He'd not gone more than three paces when a voice hailed him: “What ho, Cap'n! Fit as a fiddle, I see!”
It was Mr. Grub, the street vendor, who supplied chestnuts from a Dutch oven in the winter, and whelks, winkles, and jellied eels from a barrow in the summer.
“Yes, Mr. Grub, I'm much improved, thank you. How's business?”
“Rotten!”
“Why so?”
“Dunno, Cap'n. I think it's me pitch.”
“But you always pitch your barrow here. If it's so bad, why not move?”
Grub pushed
his cloth cap back from his brow. “Move? Phew! Dunno about that! I've been here for years, an’ me father afore me! Fancy a bag o’ whelks? They're fresh out o’ the Thames this morning!”
“No thank you, Mr. Grub. I'm on my way to Scotland Yard.”
Burton wondered how anything from the Thames could possibly be classified as “fresh.”
“Well, you ain't the only one what don't want nuffink.” Mr. Grub sighed. “Cheerio, Cap'n!”
“Good day, Mr. Grub!”
Burton tipped his hat at the vendor and continued on his way.
It was a fine spring day. The sky was blue and the air still. All across the city, thin pillars of smoke rose vertically, eventually dissipating at a high altitude. Rotorchairs left trails of steam between them, a white cross-hatching that made an irregular grid of the sky. Swans, too, swooped among the columns like insects flying through a forest.
The king's agent swung along at a steady pace, with the hustle and bustle of the streets churning around him. Hawkers hollered, prostitutes wheedled and mocked, ragamuffins yelled, traders laughed and argued and haggled, street performers sang and juggled and danced, pedestrians brandished their canes and parasols and doffed their hats and bobbed their bonnets, horses clip-clopped, velocipedes hissed and chugged, steam-horses growled and rumbled, carriages rattled, wheels crunched over cobbles, dogs barked. It was an absolute cacophony. It was London.
He spotted a familiar face.
“Hi! Quips!” he called, waving his cane.
Oscar Wilde, nine years old, orphaned by the never-ending Irish famine and earning his daily crust by selling newspapers, was loitering outside a sweet shop.
“Top o’ the morning to you, Captain!” He smiled, revealing crooked teeth. “Help me to choose, would you? Bullseyes or barley sugars? I'm after thinking barley sugars.”
“Then I agree, lad.”
Oscar pulled off his battered top hat and scratched his head.
“Ah, well now, whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong. So I suppose it'd better be bullseyes!” He sighed. “Or maybe both. It seems to me that the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Don't you think so, Captain Burton?”
The explorer chuckled. Young Oscar had a remarkable way with words-thus his nickname.
“Are you flush, young ‘un?”
“Aye, I am that. My pockets are heavy with coins, so they are. I sold out in less than an hour. It seems everyone in London is after having a newspaper this morning. Have you seen the news yourself, sir?”
“Not yet. I've had my nose in books.”
“Then you must be the exception that proves the rule, for I have it in mind that the difference between literature and journalism is that journalism is unreadable and literature is not read!”
“I suppose the Tichborne business is still making the headlines?”
A nearby organ grinder started to squeeze out something approximating a tune on his tatty machine. Oscar winced and raised his voice: “I'll say! It has all the classes gossiping-from high lords to low layabouts! Everyone has an opinion!”
“What's the latest?” Burton shouted above the unmelodious groans, squeaks, wails, and whistles.
“The Claimant arrived in Paris and his mother has recognised him!”
“By James! Is that so?”
The Tichborne affair was a huge sensation-and one that touched a sensitive area of Burton's life, for the family was connected by marriage to the Arundells, to whom Isabel, his ex-fiancee, belonged.
The Tichbornes were one of the oldest families in the southern counties, but the estate's fortunes had dwindled considerably over the past two or three generations-due, it was rumoured, to an ancient curse. In recent years, the continuation of the line had depended upon two heirs. The eldest, Roger, was a fairly typical example of an ill-educated aristocrat, while his younger brother, Alfred, was even more vacuous, and a gambler, too. Roger had offered the greatest hope for the family until, disastrously, he was lost at sea in 1854, while sailing back from South America to claim the baronetcy after the death of his father. So it was Alfred who became the latest in the long line of Tichborne baronets, and he almost ran the estate-near Winchester in Hampshire-into the ground. Money trickled through his fingers like water. His mother, Lady Henriette-Felicite, was French. She'd not enjoyed a happy marriage and had retreated to Paris long before her husband died. From a distance, she kept a close eye on the diminishing Tichborne coffers, and when the situation became so dire that she feared Sir Alfred would make a pauper of her, she sent a family friend, Colonel Franklin Lushington, to live at Tichborne House and take control of the estate's finances. Lushington had managed to curb her son's worst excesses, but what he couldn't do was turn the young baronet into a good prospect for marriage.
Sir Alfred would almost certainly be the last Tichborne.
Then something totally unexpected happened.
A year ago, while the Dowager Lady Henriette-Felicite was visiting Tichborne House, a down-on-his-luck Russian sailor came begging for alms. The old lady, by this time frail and feeble-minded, asked him if he'd ever heard of La Bella, the ship that took her eldest to the bottom of the ocean. The sailor had not only heard of it but also knew that a small group of survivors had been rescued from a longboat bearing its name. They'd been landed in Australia.
Lady Henriette-Felicite immediately placed advertisements in the Empire and a number of Australian newspapers.
A month ago, she'd received a response in the form of a badly written and misspelled letter.
It was from Roger.
He was alive.
He told her he'd been living under the name “Tomas Castro,” and was working as a butcher in Wagga Wagga, New South Wales, about halfway between Sydney and Melbourne.
He asked his mother to send him money so he could come home, and, as evidence that he-the author of the letter-truly was her son, he referred to a brown birthmark upon his side. The dowager remembered the blemish and sent the money.
Now, it seemed, the man the newspapers had dubbed “the Claimant” had met the old woman and she'd confirmed his identity.
The long-lost Roger Tichborne had returned!
As Oscar explained to Burton, the upper classes were delighted that an ancient family was restored, while the lower classes were celebrating the fact that an aristocrat had been living as a common labourer.
Dowager Lady Henriette-Felicite was bursting with joy. The rest of the Tichborne family-the cousins and assorted relatives, most of whom bore the surnames Doughty or Arundell-were not.
They didn't believe a word of it.
“He'll be over to assert ownership of the estate soon!” Oscar shouted, as the barrel organ screamed and belched.
Burton nodded thoughtfully, pulled a sixpence from his pocket, and pushed it into the urchin's palm.
“I'll see you later, Quips,” he said. “Here's a coin for a pie. You can't live on sweets alone!”
“I can get plump trying! Thank you, Captain!”
Oscar disappeared into the shop, and Burton walked on, relieved to hear the organ music fading into the background.
On the corner of Baker Street, he waved down a hansom, which, pulled by a puffing steam-horse-like a smaller version of the famous Stevenson's Rocket-took him along Wigmore Street and halfway down Regent Street before jolting to a halt when its crankshaft snapped and punched a hole in the boiler. Dismissing the driver's apologies, he hailed another and continued on through Haymarket to Whitehall and Scotland Yard.
Mounting the steps of the forbidding old edifice, he was encountered going up by Detective Inspector Trounce, who happened to be on his way down.
“Well met!” the policeman declared.
“I was just coming to pick your brains,” said Burton, shaking his friend's hand.
“I'm off to put the wind up Freddy Blue, the pawnbroker. Care to tag along?”
“Rightio. Why? What's he done?”
They descended the steps and
set off toward Trafalgar Square.
“A little bird told me he's started to fence stolen property again.”
“A parakeet?”
Trounce shook his head. “No, Cock Sparrow, the child pickpocket. What was it you wanted to jiggle my grey matter about?”
They skirted around the edge of the square and entered Northumberland Avenue, which was clogged with traffic as delivery wagons trundled up from riverside, heading into the centre of the capital.
“I was wondering what you might know about the Tichborne Claimant.”
“Only what I've read in the papers.”
“That's all? You mean Scotland Yard isn't looking into it?”
“Why should we? No charges have been brought against anyone. What's your interest, Captain?”
“To be frank, I haven't any. It's little more than newspaper sensationalism, as far as I can see. Pam, unfortunately, has other ideas.”
“Palmerston? Why would it concern the prime minister?”
“Who knows? The man's brain is as unfathomable as one of those babbage devices.”
Trounce made a sound of agreement. “Incidentally,” he said, “you should have seen the men he sent to collect the babbage we found at the priory on the night of the Brundleweed raid. They were like a couple of blessed morticians!”
“Ah. That'll be Damien Burke and Gregory Hare. They're his odd-job men.”
“ Odd is right. I've never seen odder. And speaking of oddities, how's young Swinburne?”
“He's working on a new batch of poems. And pursuing his hobby, of course.”
Trounce snorted. Both men knew that Swinburne's “hobby” involved frequent visits to brothels where he enjoyed being flogged by willing madams.
“He has strange tastes, that one,” the detective muttered. “Why anyone would enjoy being birched, I can't imagine. I suffered the rod once or twice at school, and didn't like it one little bit!”
“The more I learn about him,” Burton replied, “the more I believe Swinburne has a genuine physiological condition that causes him to feel pain as pleasure. He's a fascinating study!”
“And a thorough pervert. Though a damned courageous one, I'll give him that. Absolutely fearless! Here's Mr. Blue's shop. I'll do this alone, if you don't mind. Will you wait here?”