The Curious Case Of The Clockwork Man (20 page)

It was Sir Alfred, his white hair stark against his dark mourning suit. His face was gaunt, his eyes red.

“Not at all,” Burton answered. “My condolences, Sir Alfred. We heard the news earlier.”

“My mother lived only for my brother,” the baronet said as they stepped down to the carriageway and started across it. “When he was lost, she began to age very rapidly. The last time I saw her, she was extremely frail. If the bounder who claims to be Roger really is who he says he is, then I blame him for her demise. If he isn’t—and I still maintain that he isn’t—then I blame him doubly. I feel certain that she knew in her heart of hearts that the cad is nothing but a wicked imposter. She died of disappointment, I’m convinced of it.”

“Yet she passed away maintaining that her eldest son had returned?”

“She did. The pitiful wish of a broken woman. Where are we going—just for a stroll?”

“I want to have a closer look at the Crawls. I’m curious as to why a mist arises from them but not from the adjoining fields.”

“Ah, yes. Mysterious, isn’t it? I’ve often wondered myself.”

The three men reached the edge of the wheat field and started to skirt around its right-hand border, walking alongside a low hedgerow.

“A promising crop this year,” said Tichborne. “Look how green it is!”

“Now that you mention it,” Burton said, thoughtfully, “it appears that the Crawls are the greenest of all your fields.”

“Yes, it’s ironic, don’t you think? The best wheat we grow, we have to give away!”

The king’s agent stopped walking and looked around at the landscape.

“I don’t see any obvious geographical explanation. All the fields on this incline are equally exposed to whatever weather conditions prevail. If the Crawls dipped down slightly, I might suspect an underground water source, but in fact, if anything, they appear to hump up somewhat.”

Swinburne squatted, using his cane for balance, and peered at the horizon.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s barely noticeable, but this part of the slope is definitely a little bit higher. My goodness, what a geographer’s eye you have, Richard!”

“Enough to know that something’s not quite right here. At this low altitude, mist should form in hollows, not on the raised part of a slope. The only explanation for the vapour is that there’s a warm spring beneath our feet. Yet, as I say, it should result in a slight dip in the incline, not the opposite. Let’s walk on.”

They hiked to the top of the field and continued on into the one beyond.

“My hat! The Lady Mabella crawled all this way!” Swinburne exclaimed.

“Driven by the devil.” Tichborne shuddered. “Did you hear her knocking last night?”

“No,” said Burton, quickly, before Swinburne could open his mouth. “Did you?”

“I’m afraid I rather overdid it at supper,” the baronet answered. “I was oblivious to all from the moment my head hit the pillow—wasn’t conscious of a thing until I awoke this morning.”

“Something rather peculiar occurred in the music room. A note was struck at the piano—”

“—But no one was there,” Tichborne finished. “I bet that put the wind up you.”

“It did. It’s happened before, then?”

“For as long as I can remember. Three or four nights a week—bong!—for no apparent reason. Always the same note, too.”

“B below middle C.”

“Really? I wouldn’t know. It used to give Grandfather the heebie-jeebies, but my guess is it’s nothing more than the piano stretching and contracting with changes of temperature.”

They reached the top of the slope and Tichborne pointed to the surrounding land.

“All these wheat and barley fields are part of the estate, up to that line of trees, there. The houses yonder form the hamlet of Tichborne, which is mostly occupied by the families who work our land. As you can see, the estate is on a shallow slope that runs down into the Itchen Valley and the river. Over there—” he pointed northeastward “—is the village of Alresford.”

They continued on along the top border of the Crawls then turned at the corner and started back down toward the mansion. When they passed into the bottom field, Burton stopped and walked out into the crop.

“What are you doing?” Tichborne asked.

“Wait a moment.”

Burton pushed the end of his cane into the loamy soil then leaned on it with his full weight. It sank into the soft earth until the soil’s resistance stopped it.

Swinburne said: “Anything?”

“No.”

“What were you expecting?” asked Tichborne.

“I don’t know. I’m convinced there’s something under these two fields. I thought perhaps the end of my cane might encounter rock or brickwork.”

“Wheat roots can reach a depth of almost four feet,” the baronet said, “so the soil here is deep; too deep for your stick to touch the bottom, if there is one.”

Burton withdrew his cane, wiped a handkerchief along its length, and returned to the edge of the field.

They made their way down to the carriageway.

“I’d like to see your swans,” Tichborne said. “Would you care to stroll around to the lake with me?”

“Certainly,” Burton agreed.

As they walked, the king’s agent cast sidelong glances at the aristocrat. Sir Alfred’s mood seemed strange; he was touring his estate with what appeared to be a sense of finality, as if he were saying goodbye to his ancestral home. Burton’s intuition told him that this was more than the baronet’s reaction to his supposed brother’s imminent arrival—something else was bothering him.

“I expect you’ll be somewhat relieved to see the Claimant tomorrow,” he said. “After all these weeks, you’ll finally set eyes on the man, and will, at least, know one way or the other.”

“Yes, perhaps so,” Tichborne answered, with a distracted air.

He fell into a self-absorbed silence They circled the lake then returned to the house with barely another word spoken.

By suppertime, despite that the rooms were brightly lit with camphor lamps and mole candles, an ominous atmosphere had settled over the house. Sir Alfred sat at the dinner table with Burton and Swinburne, Colonel Lushington, Henry Hawkins, and Doctor Jankyn, and began to drink even more heavily than the night before.

Conversation was desultory and sporadic, and the men ate with little enthusiasm, though the food was excellent.

“Your Mrs. Picklethorpe works wonders,” Swinburne commented after a long and uncomfortable silence.

“She does,” Sir Alfred answered, with a slight slur. “The Tichborne pantries have always enjoyed the reputation of being the best stocked in all of Hampshire, and she certainly does justice to their contents.”

Burton froze with a forkful of beef half raised to his mouth.

“Richard?” Swinburne enquired, puzzled by his friend’s expression.

Burton lowered the fork. “Do you think I might see the kitchen and pantries at some point?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Tichborne. “Why? Do you take an interest in cooking?”

“Not at all. It’s the architecture of the house that fascinates me.”

“The cook and her staff will be cleaning up now, after which it’ll be a little late. What say you we go down there tomorrow morning before the Claimant shows up?”

“Thank you.”

They finished eating.

Tichborne stood and swayed slightly.

“I’d much appreciate a few rounds of billiards,” he said. “Will you gentlemen join me?”

“Sir Alfred—” Doctor Jankyn began, but the baronet stopped him with a sharp gesture.

“Don’t fuss, Jankyn. I’m perfectly fine. Join us.”

They repaired to the billiard room. Hawkins began a game with Swinburne and was surprised to find the poet a formidable opponent.

Bogle served port and sweet sherry.

Lushington put a flame to a meerschaum pipe, and Jankyn lit a briar, while Burton, Hawkins, and Tichborne all opted for cigars. Within minutes, the room was thick with a blue haze of tobacco smoke.

“By golly, it’s a veritable drubbing!” the lawyer exclaimed as Swinburne potted three balls in quick succession.

“If only you were as accurate with a pistol!” Burton whispered to his friend.

“To be perfectly honest,” Swinburne replied, grinning, “I’m not hitting the balls I’m aiming at. It’s sheer luck that the ones I
am
hitting are going in!”

He won the game against Hawkins, then played Colonel Lushington and beat him, too.

Sir Alfred took up a cue. “I’ll be the next lamb to the slaughter,” he announced, and they began the game.

As Burton watched, he became aware that he was feeling oddly apprehensive, and when he looked at the others’ faces, he could see they were experiencing the same sensation: the inexplicable presentiment that something was going to happen.

He shook himself and emptied his glass in a single swallow.

“Another port, please, Bogle.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“You might open the window a crack, too. It’s like a London pea-souper in here.”

“I would, sir, but it’s worse outside.”

“Worse? What do you mean?”

“It’s the mist, sir. It’s risen unusually high tonight—quite suddenly, too. Right up to the second storey of the house, and thicker than I’ve ever seen it.”

Burton crossed to the window and drew aside the curtain. The room was brilliantly reflected in the glass, and he could make out nothing beyond. Twisting the catch open, he drew up the sash a little, bent over, and peered through the gap. A solid wall of white vapour collapsed inward and began to pour over the sill and into the room.

Hurriedly, he closed the window and pulled the curtain across it.

Behind him, the room fell silent.

A glass hit the floor and shattered.

He turned.

Swinburne, Lushington, Hawkins, Jankyn, Tichborne, and Bogle were all standing motionless. Even through the blue haze, he could see that the blood had drained from their faces. They were staring wide-eyed at a corner of the room.

Burton followed their gaze.

There was a woman there—or, rather, a column of denser tobacco smoke that had taken on the form of a thickset, heavy-hipped female.

She raised a nebulous arm and pointed a tendril-like finger at Sir Alfred Tichborne. Black eyes glared from her head.

Tichborne shrieked and backed away until he was pressed against the wall, banging into a rack of billiard cues which clattered noisily to the floor.

“Lady Mabella!” he moaned.

To either side of him, the haze suddenly congealed, forming two ghostly, indistinct, top-hatted figures. They wrapped transparent fingers around his arms.

“Bloody hell!” Hawkins breathed.

Bogle let loose a piercing scream, dropped to his knees, and covered his eyes.

“For God’s sake, help me!” Tichborne wailed.

Before any of the men could move, the wraiths had dragged the baronet across the room. Lady Mabella surged forward, wrapped her swirling arms around him, and plunged through the door, taking him with her. The door didn’t open, nor did it smash; the ghostly woman, wraiths, and man simply disappeared through the wood as if it were nothing but an illusion.

A muffled cry came from the corridor beyond: “Save me! Oh, Christ! They mean to kill me!”

“After him!” Burton barked, breaking the spell that had immobilised them all.

In three long strides, he reached the door and wrenched it open in time to see Tichborne being hauled through another at the far end of the passage. Again, the flesh-and-blood baronet passed straight through the portal without it opening or breaking.

Burton hurtled along the hallway with the others trailing behind, threw open the door, and ran into the drawing room.

Tichborne’s terrified eyes fixed on him.

“Burton! Please! Please!”

Lady Mabella levelled her black eyes at the king’s agent, and he heard in his mind an accented female voice command: “Do not interfere!”

He stumbled and clutched his head, feeling as if a spear had jabbed into his brain. The pain passed in an instant. When he looked up again, the ghost and Tichborne had vanished through the door leading to the main parlour.

“Are you all right?” Swinburne asked, catching up with him.

“Yes! Come on!”

They burst into the parlour, paced across it, and tumbled into the manor’s entrance hall.

The two wraiths, led by Lady Mabella, were pulling Sir Alfred up the main staircase. He screamed and pleaded hysterically.

A gun boomed and plaster exploded from the wall beside him. Burton looked around and saw Lushington with a pistol in his raised hand.

“Don’t shoot, you fool!” he shouted. “You’ll hit the baronet!”

He started up the stairs.

Sir Alfred was dragged around a corner, his cries echoing through the house.

Burton, Swinburne, and the others followed the fast-moving wraiths down the hallway leading to the rear of the mansion, through the morning room, into a small sitting room, then to a dressing room, and into the large bedchamber beyond.

Burton stumbled into it just as Lady Mabella gripped Tichborne around the waist and disappeared with him through the closed window. His body passed through the glass without shattering it. A short scream of terror from outside ended abruptly.

The two wraiths hovered before the glass. One of them turned, reached up, and raised its phantom top hat. The figures dissipated.

Stepping to the window, Burton slid it up and looked out. About three feet below, swells of impenetrable white mist rose and fell like liquid.

“Jankyn!” he bellowed, spinning on his heel. “Follow me! The patio! Quickly, man!”

The physician, who’d been lagging behind the others and had only just entered the room, found himself being tugged along, back down the stairs, and through the house to its rear. The rest of them followed.

“What’s happening?” Lushington demanded. “Where’s Sir Alfred?”

“Come!” Burton called.

They entered the hunting room and the king’s agent pulled open the door to the patio. Dense mist enveloped the men as they stepped outside.

“I can’t see a thing!” said Jankyn.

“Over here.”

Burton knelt beside Sir Alfred Tichborne, who lay broken upon the pavement, blood pooling from the back of his head.