by Mark Hodder
Swinburne took aim and poured the brandy. Half of it hit the tabletop.
“The Ray-Rakes want a better sh-sss-society but no one listens to us, do they? They do-don't take us sh-say-seriously. Ye've sheen our dec-declarations?”
“Posted on walls and lampposts.” Swinburne nodded, and quoted: “’We will not define ourselves by the ideals you enforce. We scorn the social attitudes that you perpetuate. We neither respect nor- hic! -conform with the views of our elders. We think and act against the tides of popular opinion. We sneer at your dogma. We laugh at your rules. We are anarchy. We are chaos. We are individuals. We are the Rakes.’”
“Codswallop!” Pox squawked from Spencer's shoulder.
“Aye, w-well, it was a waysh-waste of good ink and paper. Sh-so our new leader-”
His voice trailed off and his eyes lost focus. The glass slipped from his hand, spilling brandy into his lap. He slumped forward.
“Damn, blast, and botheration!” Swinburne shrilled. “The bally fool has passed out on us just as he was getting to the good bit!”
“Yus, and he's out for the count by the look of it, lad,” Spencer observed. “He won't be openin’ his eyes again until tomorrow, mark my words. What shall we do with him?”
“We'll carry the bounder upstairs and lay him out on the sofa in the spare bedroom. I'll sleep on the bed in there. You can kip here, if an armchair's not too uncomfortable for you.”
“I've slept in so many blinkin’ doorways that an armchair is the lap o’ bloomin’ luxury!”
“My sweetie pie,” Pox whispered.
Swinburne stood and swayed unsteadily. He stamped his foot.
“What the dickens is all this fairy nonsense about, Herbert?”
“It beats me.”
By midnight, Algernon Swinburne was staring at the spare bedroom's ceiling, wishing he could be rid of the sharp tang of brandy that burned at the back of his throat.
He couldn't sleep and the room seemed to be slowly revolving.
He felt strange-and it was something more than mere drunkenness.
He'd been feeling strange ever since Burton had mesmerised him.
Tonight, though, the strangeness felt… stranger.
He shifted restlessly.
Doyle, draped over the sofa, was breathing deeply and rhythmically, a sound not too far removed from that made by waves lapping at a pebble beach.
The house whispered as the day's heat dissipated, emitting soft creaks and knocks from the floorboards, a gentle tap at the window as its frame contracted, a low groan from the ceiling rafters.
“Bloody racket,” Swinburne murmured.
From afar came the paradiddle of rotors and the muffled blare of the police warning.
“And you can shut up, too!”
He wondered how much damage the riot had caused. There had been a great many acts of arson and vandalism, and beatings and murders, too.
“London,” he hissed. “The bastion of civilisation!”
He could hardly believe that the supposed return of a lost heir had developed into such mayhem.
He looked at the curtained window.
“What was that?”
Had he heard something?
It came again, a barely audible tap.
“Not a parakeet, surely! Not unless its beak is swathed in cotton wool! Good lord, what's the matter with me? I feel positively spooked!”
Tap tap tap.
“Go away!”
He experienced the horrible sensation that someone other than Doyle and himself was present in the room. It didn't frighten him-Swinburne was entirely unfamiliar with that emotion-but it certainly made him uneasy, and he knew he'd never sleep until he confronted it head-on.
“Who's there?” he called. “Are you standing behind the curtains? If so, I should warn you that I'm none too keen on cheap melodrama!”
Tap tap.
He sighed and threw the bed sheets back, sat up, and pushed his feet into the too-big Arabian slippers that he'd borrowed from Burton's room. He stood and lifted a dressing gown from the bedside chair, wrapped it around himself, and shuffled to the window. He yanked open the curtains.
Smoke and steam, illuminated by a streetlamp, were seething against the glass.
“Hasn't it cleared up yet?” the poet muttered. “What this city needs is a good blast of wind. I say! What's that?”
The fumes were thickening, forming a shape.
“A wraith? Here? What on earth is it up to?”
He pulled up the sash and leaned out of the window.
“What's the meaning of this? Bugger off, will you! I'm thoroughly fed up with phantoms! Go and haunt somebody else! I'm trying to sleep! Wait! Wait! What? My hat! Is that-is that you, Richard?”
The ghostly features forming just inches from his own were, undoubtedly, those of Sir Richard Francis Burton.
“No!” the poet cried. “You can't be dead, surely!”
His friend's faintly visible lips moved. There was no sound, but it seemed to Swinburne that the defensive walls Burton had implanted in his mind suddenly crumbled, and the noise of their destruction was like a whispered voice: Help me, Algy!
“Help you? Help you? What? I- My God!”
He stumbled backward away from the window and fell onto the bed.
The ghostly form of Burton had melted away.
He sat for a moment with his mouth hanging open, then sprang up, grabbed his clothes, and raced from the room. He thundered down the stairs and into the study.
“Herbert! Herbert! Wake up, man!”
“Eh?”
“Richard's in trouble! We have to find him!”
“Trouble? What trouble? How do you know?”
“I had a vision!”
The vagrant philosopher eyed the younger man. “Now then, lad, that brandy-”
“No, I'm suddenly sober as a judge, I swear! Get dressed! Move, man! We have to get going! I'll meet you in the backyard!
Spencer threw up his hands. “All right, all right!”
Swinburne somehow combined putting on his clothes with descending the stairs. In the main hallway, he snatched a leash from the hatstand, and continued on to the basement and out of the back door.
The poet crossed the yard and squatted down in front of Fidget's kennel.
“Wake up, old thing,” he urged, in a low voice. “I know you and I have our differences but there's work to be done. Your master needs us!”
There came the sound of a wheezy yawn followed by a rustling movement. The basset hound's head emerged. The dog stared mournfully at the poet.
“Your nose is required, Fidget. Here, let me get the lead onto you, there's a good dog.”
Swinburne clipped the leather strap onto the hound's collar then stood and said, “Come on, exercise time!”
Fidget dived at his ankle and nipped it.
“Ow! You rotter! Stop it! We don't have time for games!”
Spencer stepped out of the house, wearing his baggy coat and cap.
“Take this little monster!” Swinburne screeched.
“So where are we off to, lad?” the philosopher asked, grabbing Fidget's lead.
“Gallows Tree Lane.”
“It's past midnight the night of a riot! How do you expect us to get to bloomin’ Clerkenwell? Weren't it difficult enough gettin’ here from Fleet Street?”
“Follow me-and keep that mongrel away from my ankles!”
Swinburne walked to the back of the yard, opened the door to the garage, and passed through. “We'll take these,” he said, as Herbert stepped in behind him.
“Rotorchairs? I can't drive a blinkin’ rotorchair!”
“Yes you can. It's easy! Don't worry, I'll show you how. It's just a matter of coordination, which means if I can do it, anyone can.”
“An’ what about the dog?”
“Fidget will sit on your lap.”
“Oh, heck!”
Swinburne opened the main doors and they dragged the machines out into the mews. Despite his prot
estations, Spencer absorbed the poet's instructions without difficulty and was soon familiar with the principles of flying. It was only experience he lacked.
“Swans I'm happy with,” he grumbled. “They was born to it. But takin’ to the air in a lump o’ metal and wood? That's plain preposterous. How the blazes do these things fly?”
Swinburne nodded and grinned. “I felt the same the first time. It's the Formby coal, you see. It produces so much energy that even these ungainly contraptions can take to the air. I should warn you, though, Herbert, that there's a chance our enemy will cause them to cease working. We could plummet from the sky. All set, then?”
Spencer stared at his companion. “Was that a joke?”
“There's no time for larking about, man! Richard may be in dire peril!”
“Um. Yus, well, er-the basset hound won't jump off, will he?”
“No. Fidget has flown with Richard before. He positively delights in the experience.”
Swinburne went to the back of Spencer's machine and started the engine, then crossed to his own and did the same. He clambered into the leather armchair and buckled himself in. After fitting a pair of goggles over his eyes, he gripped the steering rods and pushed forward on the footplate.
Above his head, six wings unfolded as the flight shaft began to revolve. They snapped out horizontally, turned slowly, picked up speed, and vanished into a blurry circle. The engine coughed and roared and steam surged out from the exhaust funnel, flattening against the ground as the rotors blew it down and away.
The machine's runners scraped forward a couple of feet then lifted. Swinburne yanked back the middle lever and shot vertically into the air.
He rose until he was high above the smoke-swathed city. Above him, the stars twinkled. Below him, fires flickered.
The riot seemed to have confined itself to the centre of London, and had been concentrated, in particular, around Soho and the West End.
Far off to the east, the Cauldron-the terrible East End-showed no signs of disturbances.
“But, then, why should it?” Swinburne said to himself. “You'll not find a single representative of High Society for them to rail against in that part of town. By crikey, though, imagine if that sleeping dragon awoke!”
Spencer shot up past him, slowed his vehicle, and sank back down until he was hovering level with the poet.
Swinburne gave him a thumbs-up, and guided his craft toward the Clerkenwell district.
Their flight was short and uneventful, though they saw many police fliers skimming low over the rooftops.
When they reached Coram's Fields, they reduced altitude and steered their machines through the drifting tatters of smoke from street to street until, below, they spotted a constable on his beat.
Swinburne landed near the policeman and stopped his rotorchair's engine.
“I say! Constable!”
“I shouldn't park here, sir, if I-Hallo! Here comes another one!”
Spencer's vehicle angled down onto the road, hit it with a thump, and skidded to a halt with sparks showering from its runners.
Fidget barked.
“Gents,” the policeman said as the engine noise died down, “this is no time and no night to be out and about in expensive vehicles!”
“We're on the king's business!” Swinburne proclaimed. “I'd like you to guard these chairs and have them returned to 14 Montagu Place at the first opportunity.”
The constable removed his helmet and scratched his head. “Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I don't know that you're in any position to give me orders, ‘specially ones that'll take me from my duties.”
“My good man, I am Sir Richard Francis Burton's personal assistant,” Swinburne countered haughtily. He pulled a card from his pocket and waved it in the man's face. “And Sir Richard Francis Burton is the king's agent. And the king, God bless him, is the ruler of the land. It also happens that I claim Detective Inspector Trounce and Detective Inspector Honesty of Scotland Yard as close personal friends. Then there's Commander Krishnamurthy, Constable Bhatti-”
“Stop! I surrender!” the policeman said, taking the card. He read it, handed it back, put on his helmet, saluted, and said: “Right you are, sir. My apologies. I'll see that your machines are returned in good time. How about if I have them shifted to the Yard for the night? For safekeeping?”
“Thank you. That will be most satisfactory, my man. I shall be sure to mention-Ow! Herbert! I told you to keep that little devil away from me! Goodbye, Constable. Thank you for your assistance!”
The policeman nodded, and Swinburne, Spencer, and Fidget crossed the road and approached the corner of Gallows Tree Lane.
Swinburne whispered, “If you see any Rakes, walk straight past them! Act normally.”
“That I can do,” Spencer mumbled inaudibly. “Dunno ‘bout you, though!”
They entered the dimly lit street and stopped outside number 5. The house was in darkness.
Swinburne hissed, “Keep a tight rein on the dog, Herbert. I have to squat down to speak to him and I'd rather not have my nose bitten!”
“Right ho.”
“Now then, you vicious little toerag,” Swinburne said to the basset hound, “where's your master, hey? Seek, Fidget! Seek! Where's your master? I know the air is full of ash, but I'm sure those blessed nostrils of yours can sort the wheat from the chaff. Seek!”
Fidget's deep brown eyes, which had been regarding him with disdain, slowly lost focus.
“Find your master!” Swinburne encouraged.
Fidget blinked, looked to the right, then to the left, then at Swinburne, then at Herbert Spencer.
“Wuff!”
He lowered his nose to the pavement and began to snuffle back and forth.
All of a sudden, he raised his head, bayed wildly, and set off at a terrific pace, almost yanking Spencer off his feet.
“He's got it!” Swinburne enthused, racing after the pair.
They ran out onto Gray's Inn Road, turned left, raced up to King's Cross Railway Station, then swerved left again onto the Euston Road.
“He seems mighty sure of himself!” Spencer puffed as they galloped along.
“That nose never fails!” Swinburne panted. “It saved my life last year. It's just a shame it's attached to the rest of the beast!”
At the junction with Russell Square, they encountered two constables who were grappling with a mad-eyed individual dressed in a bloodstained butcher's apron.
“What the devil do you think you're doing out and about at this time of night?” one of the policemen yelled at them.
“Government business!” Swinburne declared.
“Pull the other one, it's got bells on it!”
“Aargh!” the butcher howled. “Look at the little one! The red-haired git! He's a bloody toff! Kill ‘im! Kill ‘im!”
“Shut up,” the second policeman snapped. He grunted as the man's knee thudded into his stomach, and groaned to his companion: “Bash the blighter on the head, Bill!”
The poet, philosopher, and basset hound ran past the brawling trio and kept going.
Fidget led the two men onward until the bottom end of Regent's Park hove into view. The trail led past it and onto Marylebone Road. They had run about a mile so far.
“I never thought I'd be thankful for a riot!” Swinburne gasped.
“What do you mean, lad?”
“Isn't it obvious? Whoever's got Richard couldn't find transport! They're on foot!”
They hurried on for another mile. The road, one of the city's main highways, was empty of people but filled with rubble and wreckage. Fires still blazed and they found themselves plunging through clouds of black smoke. Many gas lamps had been vandalised, too, and lengths of the thoroughfare were pitch dark.
“Whoops!” Spencer cried as Fidget made an unexpected left turn.
“Bishop's Bridge Road,” Swinburne noted.
Just ahead of them, the lights of Paddington Railway Station flared out from within an enormous cloud
of white steam. Fidget plunged straight into it.
The terminal was a scene of out-and-out chaos. A locomotive had derailed while entering the station, ploughing into one of the platforms. It was lying on its side with its boiler split open, vapour shooting out of the ripped metal.
Policemen and station workers milled about, and the moment Swinburne and Spencer stepped into the building, a constable, whose features were dominated by a truly enormous mustache, pounced on them.
“Stop right there! What are you two up to?” He looked at Swinburne curiously. “Hello hello. Haven't I seen you somewhere before? Hey up! I know! It was back when that brass man was left in Trafalgar Square! Constable Hoare is the name, sir. Samuel Hoare.”
“Hello, Hoare. We're on official business! Have a squint at this.”
Burton's assistant presented his credentials to the uniformed man, who examined them and raised his bushy eyebrows.
Fidget whined and tugged desperately at his lead. Hoare shook his head.
“This is too much for me,” he said. “I'll call my supervisor over, if you don't mind.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled into the cloud: “Commander! Commander!”
Swinburne breathed a sigh of relief as the steam parted and Commander Krishnamurthy strode into view. He was wearing the new Flying Squad uniform of a long brown leather coat and a flat peaked officer's hat. A pair of flying goggles dangled around his neck.
“What ho! What ho! What ho!” the poet cried happily. “Krishnamurthy, old horse! Why, I haven't seen you since the Battle of Old Ford! Aren't you sweltering in all that leather?”
“Hallo, Swinburne, old chap!” Krishnamurthy exclaimed, with an unrestrained grin. He grabbed his friend's hand and shook it. “Yes I am! Regulations, a hex on ’em! What on earth are you doing here, and at this time of night? Wait a minute-” he looked at Spencer “-aren't you Herbert Spencer, the philosopher chap? My cousin-Shyamji Bhatti-is always talking about you. Singing your praises, in fact.”
“That's very kind of him; he's a good fellow!” Spencer replied. “You look like him.”
“Dashingly handsome, you mean? Thanks very much. So what's the story, Mr. Swinburne?”
“Fidget's nose has led us here. We're tracking Richard. He's in trouble!”
Krishnamurthy looked down at the basset hound. “Well, this isn't the end of the trail by the looks of it. Let him lead on, we'll see where he takes us. You can tell me all about it on the way. Stay with us, Constable Hoare!”