The curious case of the Clockwork Man

Mark Hodder

The curious case of the Clockwork Man

One man's wickedness may easily become all men's curse.

Sir Richard Francis Burton was dead.

He was lying on his back in the lobby of the Royal GeographicalSociety, sprawled at the bottom of the grand staircase with adiminutive red-haired poet slumped across his chest.

Algernon Charles Swinburne, tears streaming down his cheeks, hissenses befuddled with alcohol, quickly composed an elegy. It was,after all, best to strike while the iron was hot.

He raised his head, his hair fiery in the flickering gas light,and, in his high-pitched voice, proclaimed: Wouldst thou not knowwhom England, whom the world,

Mourns? For the world whose wildest ways he trod,

And smiled their dangers down that coiled and curled

Against him, knows him now less man than god.

He hiccupped.

Beneath his hand, in Burton's jacket, he felt a flask-shapedlump. Surreptitiously, he began to wiggle his fingers into thepocket.

“Our demigod of daring, keenest-eyed,” he continued, with asniff. “To read and deepest-”

“Atrocious!” a voice thundered from the top of the stairs.

Swinburne looked up.

Sir Roderick Murchison stood imperiously on the landing.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Algy,” came a whisper.

Swinburne looked down.

Burton's eyes were open.

“Atrocious behaviour!” Murchison boomed again.

The president of the Royal Geographical Society descended withdignity and poise. His back was ramrod straight. His bald head wasshining. He passed portraits of the great explorers: James Cook,Sir Walter Raleigh, John Franklin, Sir Francis Drake-this latterpainting was hanging askew, having been struck by Burton's passingfoot-William Hovell, Mungo Park, and others.

“I'll not brook such conduct, Burton! This is a respectablescientific establishment, not a confounded East End tavern!”

Swinburne fell back as his friend, the former soldier, explorer,and spy-the linguist, scholar, author, swordsman, geographer, andking's agent-staggered to his feet and stood swaying, glowering atMurchison, his one-time sponsor.

“Alive, then?” the poet muttered, gazing bemusedly at hisfriend.

At five foot eleven, Burton appeared taller, due to the breadthof his shoulders, depth of his chest, and slim athletic build. Asinebriated as he was, he radiated power. His eyes were black andmesmeric, his cheekbones prominent, his mouth set aggressively. Hehad short black hair, which he wore swept backward, and a fiercemustache and beard, forked and devilish. A deep scar disfigured hisleft cheek, tugging slightly at his bottom eyelid, and there was asmaller one on the right, each marking the path of a Somali spearthat had been thrust through his face during a disastrousexpedition to Berbera.

“You're a damnable drunkard!” Murchison barked as he reached thebottom step. His narrow features suddenly softened. “Are youhurt?”

Burton snarled his response: “It'll take more than a tumble downthe bloody stairs to break me!”

Swinburne scrambled up from the floor. He was tiny, just fivefoot two, and slope-shouldered. His head, perched on such adiminutive body, and with its mop of carroty hair, seemed perfectlyenormous. He had pale-green eyes and was clean shaven. He appearedmuch younger than his twenty-four years.

“Confound it,” he squeaked. “Now I'll have to use the elegy forsomebody else. Who died recently? Anyone noteworthy? Did you likeit, Richard? The bit about ‘For the world whose wildest ways hetrod’ was especially appropriate, I thought.”

“Be quiet, Swinburne!” Murchison snapped. “Burton, I'm nottrying to break you, if that's what you're implying. Henry Stanleywas better financed to settle the Nile question than you. I hadlittle choice but to add the Society's backing to that which hereceived from his newspaper.”

“And now he's disappeared!” Burton growled. “How many flyingmachines have to vanish over Africa's Lake Regions before yourealise that the only way in is on foot?”

“I'm well aware of the problem, sir, and I'll have you know thatI warned Stanley. It was his newspaper that insisted he takerotorchairs!”

“Pah! I know the area better than any man in the entire BritishEmpire, but you saw fit to send a damn fool journalist. Who next,Murchison? Perhaps a dance troupe from the music halls?”

Sir Roderick stiffened. He crossed his arms over his chest andreplied, icily: “Samuel Baker wants to mount a rescue mission, asdoes John Petherick, but whomever I send, it shan't be you, of thatyou can be certain. Your days as a geographer are over. It appears,however, that your days as a drinker are not!”

Burton clenched his teeth, tugged at his jacket, took a deepbreath, paused, sighed it out, and all of a sudden the fight lefthim. He said, in a subdued tone: “Sam and John are good men.Accomplished. They know how to handle the natives. My apologies,Sir Roderick, I find it difficult to let go. I still think of theNile question as mine to answer, though, in truth, I have a new andentirely different role to play now.”

“Ah, yes. I heard a rumour that Palmerston has employed you. Isit true?”

Burton nodded. “It is.”

“As what?”

“In truth, it's hard to say. I'm titled the ‘king's agent.’ It'ssomething of an investigative role.”

“Then I would think you're well suited to it.”

“Perhaps. But I still take an interest in-well-sir, if you hearanything-”

“I'll get word to you,” Murchison interrupted curtly. “Now go.Get some coffee. Sober up. Have some self-respect, man!”

The president turned and stamped back up the stairs,straightening Drake's portrait as he passed it.

A valet fetched Burton and Swinburne their coats, hats, andcanes, and the two men walked unsteadily across the lobby and outthrough the double doors.

The evening was dark and damp, glistening with reflections afterthe day's showers. A chill wind tugged at their clothes.

“Coffee at the Venetia Hotel?” Burton suggested, buttoning hisblack overcoat.

“Or another brandy and a bit of slap and tickle?” Swinburnecountered. “Verbena Lodge isn't far from here.”

“Verbena Lodge?”

“It's a house of ill repute where the birchings are-”

“Coffee!” Burton said.

They walked along Whitehall Place and turned right intoNorthumberland Avenue, heading toward Trafalgar Square. Swinburnebegan to sing a song of his own composition: If you were queen ofpleasure,

And I were king of pain,

We'd hunt down love together,

Pluck out his flying-feather,

And teach his feet a measure,

And find his mouth a rein;

If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain.

His tremulous piping attracted disapproving glances frompassersby. Despite the bad weather and the late hour, there wereplenty of people about, mainly gentlemen strolling to and frobetween the city's restaurants and clubs.

“Oh, bugger it,” the poet cursed. “I think I just sang the lastverse first. Now I'll have to start again.”

“Please don't trouble yourself on my account,” Burtonmurmured.

A velocipede-or “pe

“Hal-lo!” the rider exclaimed as he passed them, his voicerendered jittery as the vehicle's huge rubber-banded front wheelcommunicated every bump of the cobbled street to his spine.“W-what's g-going on in the s-square?”

Burton peered ahead, struggling to focus his eyes. There was,indeed, some sort of commotion. A crowd had gathered, and he couldsee the cockscomb helmets of police constables moving among the tophats.