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On the dot of eight, there came a hammering at the front door,followed by footsteps on the stairs and a tapping at the studydoor.
“Come!” Burton called.
The portal swung open and Mrs. Angell crossed the threshold. Shestood nervously wrapping her hands in her pinafore.
“Detective Inspector T-Trounce and a young con-constable to seeyou, sir,” she stammered. “And-and-goodness gracious me!”
“Mrs. Angell? Are you quite all right?”
Trounce stepped into the room behind her. Constable Bhattifollowed.
“Hallo, Captain! Hallo, Swinburne!” the Scotland Yard man criedcheerfully. “Mrs. Angell, my dear woman, don't worry yourself! Ipromise you, it's absolutely harmless!”
“B-but-bless my soul!” the old dame stuttered. She threw up herhands and bustled out of the room.
“What's harmless?” Burton asked.
“You look like your old self again!” Trounce exclaimed, ignoringthe question. “But never mind! Worse things happen at sea!”
Swinburne gave a screech of laughter.
“Come in, gentlemen; help yourself to a drink and cigar,” Burtoninvited, indicating the decanter and the cigar box.
They did so, pulled over a couple of armchairs, and settledaround the fireplace with the king's agent and the poet. Fidgetsprawled on the hearthrug at their feet.
“We have a gift for you, Captain,” Trounce declared with amischievous twinkle.
“Really? Why?”
“Oh, for services rendered and whatnot! Besides, I noticed thatyour shoes are never polished, your cuffs are frayed, and yourcollars need starching!”
“Ever the detective. What on earth has my personal grooming gotto do with anything?”
“I'm suggesting, Captain Burton, that you're in dire need of agentleman's gentleman-a valet!”
“I have a housekeeper and a maid. Any more staff and I'll bemanaging a ‘household!’”
“Only those that need managing,” Trounce said. He winked atBhatti.
The young constable smiled and called: “Enter!”
A figure of gleaming brass walked in, closed the door, andstood, whirring softly.
Fidget yelped and dived behind a chair.
“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “Is that the clockwork man ofTrafalgar Square?”
“The very same!” Trounce answered. “Constable Bhatti has beenstudying him for the past three weeks.”
“We found a key that fitted him in the priory,” the constableadded. “Then it was just a matter of experimentation. As Isuspected, the little switches at the front of the babbage dictatehis behaviour. He can be rendered more aggressive, subservient,independent; you can set him to respond to any voice, specificvoices, or just your own. What do think, Captain Burton?”
Burton looked at each of his guests, then turned his gaze to thebrass man.
“Frankly, gentlemen,” he said, “I'm at a complete loss. You meanme to keep this mechanism as a valet?”
“Yes,” Trounce said. “It will do whatever you tell it!”
Bhatti nodded and added: “It has enough independence to performtasks without needing to be told all the time. For example, if youorder it to ensure that your shoes are polished by six o'clock eachmorning, then it will never need telling again.”
“I wish I could say the same about my missus!” Trouncemuttered.
“Wait, Captain!” Bhatti said, jumping up. He strode to the brassman and stood in front of it. “Everybody remain silent, please.Captain Burton, would you say a few words when I nod at you?”
“Words? What words?”
“Any! It doesn't matter!”
The constable took a small screwdriver from his pocket, turnedto the clockwork figure, unscrewed the small porthole in its“forehead,” and used the tool to click down one of the smallswitches inside.
“The next voice you hear,” he told the device, “will be the onlyvoice 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 myvalet.”
The brass man turned its head slightly until it appeared to belooking straight at Burton.
It saluted.
“That's its way of acknowledging your command,” said Bhatti. Hereached into the porthole and flipped the switch back, then closedthe little glass door and started to screw it into place.
“One moment, Constable!” Burton interrupted. “If you are allagreeable, I'd like the device set to accept commands from everyonepresent, 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 Bhattiwent through the process again with her, with Trounce, and withSwinburne.
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, lookedit up and down, tapped its chest, and examined the little cogs thatrevolved in its head.
“Useful!” the king's agent muttered. “Very useful! Might I trainit as a fencing partner?”
“Certainly!” Bhatti answered. “Though you'll probably find ittoo fast an opponent!”
Burton raised his eyebrows.
“Incidentally,” the constable added, “it'll need winding once aday, and, if I may suggest, you should name it. A name will make iteasier to issue orders.”
“Ah, yes, I see what you mean.”
Burton stood in front of his new valet and addressed it: “Do yourecognise 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, DetectiveInspector Trounce, Constable Bhatti-it's a magnificent gift! Andnow I propose that we bring the case of the clockwork man ofTrafalgar Square to a close by giving my valet his firstorder.”
Trounce nodded encouragement.
“Admiral Nelson!” Sir Richard Francis Burton commanded. “Servethe drinks!”
The drinks were duly served.
Later that night, the king's agent found himself unable tosleep. 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 thedeath of Sir Charles Babbage.
A hiss, a clatter, and a sound like a large bung being pulledfrom a jar a
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 nextstaircase, 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 duringhis famed pilgrimage to Mecca-sat cross-legged on the floor amid apile of books. He had a turban wound around his head and wassmoking a hookah. The ends of his slippers curled to points.
He'd shaved off his forked beard some days ago and now sportedlong, 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, whowas a good deal less prepossessing than her master. Elderly, brown,and ski
Burton nodded at the man, who responded by laying down hisinstrument.
“Thank you, al-Masloub. Your talent shines ever more brightly asthe years pass. Take what you need from the sideboard, andblessings be upon you.”
The old man stood, bowed, and murmured: “ Barak Allahu feekem.”