The Curious Case Of The Clockwork Man (36 page)

Some of the millipede’s legs cracked and snapped against the building. The shop’s display window shattered.

“Careful! Careful!” Hare shouted.

Burton jammed down his heels.

“Steer out into the centre of the street, else we’ll lose all the limbs along this side!”

“Sorry,” the king’s agent mumbled. He looked back along the length of the vehicle, trying to judge distances. “Whose bloody stupid idea was it to turn an insect into a confounded ‘bus?” he growled.

A yank at the right-hand lever followed by a slow pull back on the left sent the machine away from the corner and out into the middle of the road.

He accelerated along the thoroughfare, fighting to maintain control as the omnipede snaked wildly from side to side, hurtling into abandoned carts, overturned braziers, and all manner of debris, smashing everything aside or crushing it flat beneath its numerous short, powerful legs.

Burton tried to slow it down—he could barely see where he was going—but the footplate was far too responsive and his clumsy efforts caused a jolting motion that had his teeth clicking together and Hare yelling at him.

“Stop or go, if you please, Captain, but for pity’s sake try not to do both at once!”

The king’s agent glanced again at the gauges.

Perhaps if-
—

He reached to a small wheel beside the pressure indicator and turned it counterclockwise. Immediately, all along the great length of the omnibus, plumes of steam screamed out of the vents.

The vehicle stabilised.

“The pressure was too high!” he called. “I’ve got her in hand now!”

Phut! Phut! Phut!

He looked back.

Gregory Hare was shooting at a brougham that had emerged from the swirling smoke and was racing alongside, its steam-horse panting, its driver hollering incoherently. A man was hanging loosely out of the passenger cabin, his arms dangling, cactus spines projecting from the side of his head. Behind him, using him as cover, another man was brandishing a pair of pistols and taking potshots at Hare.

“Shoot the blessed driver!” Burton yelled.

“I’m trying! Perhaps you could pilot this contraption a little more steadily?”

“God-damned stupid machine!” ground out Burton through gritted teeth. “Why in the name of all that’s holy did I
ever
leave Africa?”

He wrenched at the left steering lever, sending the omnipede thundering around a motionless and badly dented litter-crab.

A bullet whined past his ear.

“Lions I can bloody well cope with. Mosquitoes I can bloody well cope with. Even traitorous bloody partners, I can bloody well cope with. But giant steam-operated insects I can quite—”

The ’bus slammed into a beer wagon, sending splintered wood exploding outward.

“—happily—”

The vehicle bucked and shook as it trampled over the shattered cart.

“—do without!”

“I’m hit!” Hare cried.

Burton looked back and saw that Palmerston’s man had slumped down, clutching his hip, his wide mouth contorted with pain.

The brougham drew closer to the head of the racing insect.

“Stupid stuck-up ponce!” bawled the driver. “You think you can cheat Tichborne?”

Bullets thudded into the carapace at Burton’s side.

The stench of the Thames wafted over the king’s agent as the omnipede streaked past empty tollbooths and out onto Waterloo Bridge. He caught a glimpse of Big Ben through the stifling atmosphere. Orange light reflected from the side of the tower. The Houses of Parliament were burning.

A shot clipped his ear.

“Upper-class pig bastard!”

“Snooty pisspot!” yelled the brougham’s passenger. “Tichborne forever!”

“You two are worse than parakeets,” Burton shouted. “And I’ve had quite enough of it!”

He tugged at the right steering lever, sending the omnibus swerving sideways until it collided with the pursuers. The driver shrieked as his vehicle was rammed into the bridge’s parapet.

“Sweet Jesus!” screamed the man inside the cabin as it crunched against the stone barrier. With shocking rapidity, the entire box suddenly flew to pieces and was thrown into the air. The steam-horse overturned and the disintegrating brougham somersaulted over it, smashed against the railing, and disappeared over the side of the bridge.

“There you are, gents,” Burton muttered. “A little river water for you. Wash your mouths out.” He called over his shoulder: “Are you all right, Hare?”

“Just keep going, Captain! I seem to be immobilised but I daresay I’ll live!”

A group of wraiths hove into view at the side of the bridge then wafted away.

A man walked into the path of the omnipede. He was carrying the headless corpse of a woman slung over his shoulder. As Burton jammed his heels down, the man looked up and grinned. Blood oozed from the corners of his mouth.

The millipede hit him square on and he vanished beneath its stampeding legs.

“Idiot!” Burton spat.

The machine ran on, slowed to a scuttle, and came to a stop. The explorer hoisted himself out and moved back to Hare.

“I just caught sight of a police cordon at the end of the bridge. It looks like they’ve blocked off the Strand. We can get help.”

Damien Burke groaned and his eyes fluttered open. “You appear to be injured, Mr. Hare,” he mumbled.

“I am, Mr. Burke. As are you. Don’t worry, we haven’t far to go.”

He looked at Burton, held out the spine-shooter, and said: “Your gun, Captain.”

“No, you keep hold of it while I run ahead.”

“But—”

The king’s agent jumped to the ground, scooped up a sharp-ended length of wood, and stalked forward, holding it like a spear, his eyes stinging as particles of ash and soot drifted into them.

“Oy! You there!” came a shout. “Go home! Get off the streets or you’ll find yourself under arrest!”

“Police?” Burton called.

“Yes.”

“I am Captain Sir Richard Burton.”

“The Livingstone chap? You’re joking!”

“I’m perfectly serious, Constable, and please don’t ever refer to me as ‘the Livingstone chap’ again!”

A uniformed man emerged from the smoke. “Sorry, sir. No offence intended. And it’s sergeant, actually. There’s a police cordon behind me. I’m afraid I can’t allow you to pass.”

Burton threw his makeshift weapon aside, dug a hand into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. From it, he took a card which, approaching the policeman, he held out for inspection.

The sergeant examined it. “Stone the crows!” he exclaimed. “You’re rather important!”

“It would seem so,” responded Burton dryly. “I have two injured men with me, Sergeant—?”

“Slaughter, sir.”

“Slaughter? Really? How grimly appropriate.”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Sidney Slaughter at your service.”

“My colleagues are Lord Palmerston’s men and they need to get to Whitehall without delay. Can you rustle up an escort?”

“Certainly. Are they back there?”

“Yes. In an omnipede.”

“I’ll give you a hand with them. We’ll get them to the tollbooths—they mark the edge of the cordon—then I’ll arrange transportation.”

“Thank you.”

They hurried back to the giant insect where they found Damien Burke propped weakly against one of its canopies, brandishing the spine-shooter.

“Thank goodness, Captain,” he gasped. “I appear to have regained my wits just as Mr. Hare lost his. However, I fear I may revisit oblivion at any moment. I’m in quite dreadful pain.”

Burton took the gun from him and helped him down to the road.

“This is Slaughter,” he said.

“I wouldn’t go that far, Captain.”

“The sergeant. It’s his name.”

“Oh dear.”

The policeman slipped his shoulder under Burke’s healthy arm. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a hold of you. Let’s be off.”

They staggered away, while Burton climbed onto the omnipede and, employing his great strength, lifted the prone form of Gregory Hare from the floor. He dragged him down the steps then followed after the policeman.

A couple of minutes later there came a hail.

“Hey! Sergeant! Over here! I say! Is that you, Captain Burton?”

“Yes, who’s that? Come and give me a hand!”

The haze parted as Constable Bhatti stepped out of it.

“Ah! Hallo there!” Burton said.

“Hello, Captain. Strewth! Who’re these two?”

“Palmerston’s men.”

Slaughter lowered Burke and said to Burton: “Lay your man against the booth here.” He called to a nearby colleague: “Constable Peters, dash off and fetch a carriage, would you?” Then he turned to Burke: “I’ll run you both to a hospital.”

“No,” Burke responded hoarsely. “We need to get to Whitehall. I’ll give you the address.”

“But you need your wounds seen to, man!”

“We’ll get medical assistance there. Please, do as I say.”

Slaughter shrugged. “Very well, sir.”

Constable Bhatti muttered, in a low voice: “Captain, I saw Mr. Swinburne a little while ago and managed to snatch a quick word with him. He was with Herbert Spencer—and disguised as an urchin. They were on the trail of a fellow named Doyle.”

“How long ago? Any idea where they were headed?”

“Perhaps an hour, and to the Cheshire Cheese tavern on Fleet Street.”

“Good. Maybe they’re still there.”

“If you’re going to follow, I recommend you take the same route they did—along the Embankment and up Farringdon Street. It’s a little less direct but whatever you do, don’t try to pass through the Strand. There are monsters running rampant and no one who’s gone in has come out again.”

“Monsters? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what they are. One has been glimpsed through the smoke. Huge, apparently. We tried to do a recce by air but our rotorchairs dropped like stones. We lost four men. Then we tried to fly swans over the area but they panicked as soon as they got near and flapped off in the other direction, taking their drivers with them. Only our runners and parakeets can get in and out, but, of course, that’s not doing us much good. Now we’re waiting until morning before we try to clear the area. By the way, what’s wrong with Mr. Swinburne?”

“Wrong? What do you mean?”

“He seems, um—how shall I put it?—even more incomprehensible than usual.”

“Ah. Yes. My fault. I mesmerised him. I’m sure the side effects will wear off in due course.”

“Mesmerised! Why?”

“I believe this rioting is being instigated by some sort of mediumistic transmission. I was trying to shield him against it.”

“Phew!” Bhatti exclaimed. “I wish you’d stay and give my colleagues the same treatment. We’ve had men going off half-cocked about Roger Tichborne, men running into the Strand and not returning, men collapsing with headaches—it’s been bloody mayhem!”

“And you, Constable? How are you faring?”

“I’ve had a throbbing skull since this chaos began but I’ll survive. Is that the carriage I hear?”

“I believe so. Will Burke and Hare be taken care of?”

“Yes, Captain, Sergeant Slaughter will get them to where they need to go.”

Burton turned to Palmerston’s men, both of whom were conscious now, both slumped against the side of a tollbooth.

“I’m going to leave you in Sergeant Slaughter and Constable Bhatti’s capable hands, fellows.”

“Right you are, sir,” Damien Burke said. “Incidentally, we never got the chance to ask: was our mission successful?”

“It was. My thanks to you both.”

“Good luck, Captain.”

Burton gave a nod of his head, slapped Bhatti’s shoulder, nodded to Slaughter, and ran off into the swirling haze. He sprinted to the end of the bridge, past constables who, having learned of his presence, allowed him through the cordon, then descended the steps to the Albert Embankment, which he followed eastward.

The foul stench of the Thames enveloped him as he ran, the exertion causing him to gulp lungfuls of the poisonous, particle-laden air. He started to cough, his eyes and nose streamed, and when he reached the end of Middle Temple Lane, he stopped, bent double, and spewed black vomit into the gutter.

His head was spinning and his chest wheezed horribly, reminding him of Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s creaking bellows. He spat, trying to rid his mouth of the foul taste of ash, bile, and pollutants.

He pushed on.

Time and again he saw wraiths but only two actual men tried to accost him and both went down in an instant with cactus spines in their thighs.

He reached Farringdon and moved in a northerly direction along the thoroughfare, away from the reek of the river. There were fewer buildings ablaze here and the smoke cleared somewhat, allowing him a better view of the abandoned street.

A runner went past him, a blur of grey. He saw more of the dogs speeding back and forth. He guessed they were carrying messages between police stations; the force made extensive use of the postal system.

There were just a few people stumbling about, looking dazed and bewildered, barely conscious of their surroundings. He shot a man who lurched at him, but the others left him alone. Then it dawned on him that every tavern he’d passed appeared full, each producing the sounds of merriment and arguments, songs, shouts, and laughter. Obviously, now that the evening was drawing in, the rioters were taking shelter and refreshment, preparing to see the night through with copious amounts of alcohol. He wondered whether it would loosen the grip of whatever was influencing them, as it had with Swinburne.

He entered Fleet Street and had progressed but a few yards when he spotted Herbert Spencer standing in the shelter of a doorway.

“Boss!” the vagrant philosopher exclaimed. “I weren’t expectin’ to see you!”

“Hallo, Herbert. Where’s Algernon?”

“In there,” Spencer replied, pointing at an ancient tavern. The sign above the door read
Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.
“He found out from Mrs. Doyle that her ne’er-do-well husband was livin’ in a flat above a public house what’s called the Frog and Squirrel. He went there disguised as a street waif an’ sure enough found the man himself proppin’ up the bar. Drunk as a skunk, he was. Doyle has some sort of appointment later on, and Master Swinburne has tagged along with him as far as this here pub. I saw ’em headin’ down to the Embankment, to give the Strand a wide berth, so I followed and managed to exchange a few words with the lad on the sly. Incidentally, the Strand is where the wraiths are thickest—an’ there are crowds of Rakes wanderin’ about in it, too, but the thing is—” He stopped and shuddered.