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She looked at Burton. “You a bloody rozzer, or what? ’Cos if youare, you can bleedin’ well stuff it.”
“I'm not the police. What's all that noise about? Who'sscreaming?”
Crack!
“Yow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ha ha!”
That was Algy!
“What's happening? Answer me!”
The girl shrugged and gestured over her shoulder. “It's Betsy,ain't it? She's gone bloody loopy. ’Ere, if ya ain't a rozzer,maybe we could-”
Burton pushed past her and strode forward until he found himselfmingling with a small crowd of semi-clad men and girls who'dgathered in a wide ring around a curvaceous brunette. She washeavily made-up, and wore little more than a tight black whalebonebodice, French bloomers, and high-heeled boots.
In her left hand she held a whip, the end of which was coiledaround the neck of a man kneeling meekly behind her wearing nothingbut underpants. She had a second whip in her right hand, and withthis, she was lashing at a small figure that hopped, jerked, anddanced before her.
It was Algernon Swinburne.
Crack!
The leather thong coiled around the poet's hindquarters.
“Ouch! Ouch! Hah, yes! But really, Betsy, what do youthink-”
Crack!
It slashed at his waist, ripping his shirt and slicing throughhis belt.
“Woweee! No! Ow! Ow!-do you think you are doing with that-”
Crack!
His trousers slid to his ankles.
“Narrgh! Oof! Ha ha ha!-doing with that poor gentleman?”
Burton glanced at the woman's prisoner. He looked again, andrecognised him: it was the Chancellor of the Exchequer, WilliamGladstone.
“Mr. Gladstone!” he called, pushing past prostitutes and angrycustomers. “What are you doing?”
“Shut up!” snapped the whip-wielding woman, who Swinburne hadaddressed as Betsy.
“It's all right, Richard!” the poet panted. “I have thesituation under control.”
“So I see,” Burton replied sarcastically.
“Who are you, sir!” the kneeling politician demandedhaughtily.
“Sir Richard Burton.”
“I said shut up!” Betsy ordered.
“Palmerston's swashbuckler?”
“Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that, but-”
Crack!
Burton cried out and fell to one knee, clutching his head,feeling his scalp open up above the left ear. Blood dripped throughhis fingers.
Crack!
Leather encircled his forearm and neck, tightened cruelly,ripped his sleeve, and slid away. The explorer toppled to thecobbles and quickly rolled aside as the lash sliced through the airagain and smacked loudly against the road beside him.
“Hey! I say!” Swinburne shouted. “Don't flog him! Flog me!”
“Be quiet!” Betsy commanded.
“Yes,” said Burton, scrambling to his feet, “be quiet,Algy.”
Above the general hubbub, there sounded the clank and rattle ofan approaching litter-crab.
The crowd thi
“Burton,” called Gladstone. “Do not misjudge what you witnesshere. I am present simply to rehabilitate these fallen women.”
“In you undergarments, sir?”
“They stole my clothes!”
Betsy pulled her lips back over her teeth and hissed:“Oppressor! Hypocrite! Conspirator!”
“Betsy, dear,” said Swinburne, soothingly, “the middle of thestreet is no place for a discussion about-about-by the way, what isit we're discussing?”
“Pervert!”
Crack!
“Argh! Yowch! You mean poet! ”
“For pity's sake,” Burton growled impatiently. He took threelong strides and grabbed the prostitute by the wrists. She let outa howl of fury and started to struggle, biting and kicking.
“Algy! Pull your bloody pants up and help me!”
Swinburne hoisted his trousers up to his waist, held them withone hand, shuffled over, and pulled the thong from aroundGladstone's neck.
“I'm married,” the politician told him earnestly. “I've neverbeen guilty of an act of infidelity.”
“You may tell that to the marines-” the poet gri
“The police!” Gladstone exclaimed in horror, and without abackward glance, he jumped to his bare feet and took off.
“I'd love to see how he gets home,” said Swinburne.
“Damn it!” Burton yelled as Betsy sank her teeth into his wrist.He pushed her from him and backed away, with Swinburne at his side.The woman, with a whip in either hand, spat and snarled like a wildanimal.
The crowd had dispersed-the men ru
Crack!
The tip of a whip flicked through the skin of Burton's forehead.He staggered. Blood dribbled into his eyes.
Betsy circled the two men. “Tichborne is i
The bulky grey metallic form of the litter-crab loomed out ofthe mist behind her, its eight legs thumping against the road. Frombeneath its belly, twenty-four thin arms extended downward,flicking back and forth, picking rubbish from the road anddepositing it into the mechanism's flaming maw to beincinerated.
“Move aside, madam,” Burton advised.
“Why don't you keep your fat mouth shut?”
“Betsy, there's a litter-crab right behind you,” Swinburneshrilled, urgently.
Betsy giggled insanely. “Stupid bloody toffs.”
“You're going to be-” Burton began.
The prostitute let out a piercing cry and flicked her whip up tostrike. Burton flinched in anticipation, but even as he did so, thetip of the girl's weapon flew back and tangled with one of thecollector arms under the lumbering machine. The thong was yankedviolently, jerking her off her feet. She went sprawling backwardand rolled under the advancing crab. The twenty-four metal armspummelled and thrashed at her. She screeched and writhed andfainted. Seconds later, the litter-crab froze as the fail-safesystem activated, a valve clicked open on its back, and steamwhistled out at high pressure. The emergency siren started towail.
Burton stepped over to the machine, bending to peer at the pronebody beneath.
“Is she dead?” asked Swinburne, raising his voice over thenoise.
“No, just scrapes and bruises.”
The poet gave a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness! She's one of myfavourites.”
“Still?”
Swinburne nodded, smiled, and gave a shrug.
His trousers dropped.
“Don't shrug again until you have a new belt,” Burton advised.“Come on, let's get away from this bloody racket. The girl isalready coming round and the crab's siren will attract a constablesoon enough. We'll let the police sort this one out. I've had quiteenough of it!”
They returned to their pe
“Ow! Hah! Yes! Ooh!” Swinburne exclaimed. “My hat, Richard!These boneshakers play the merry devil with freshly stripedbuttocks!”
“Spare me the details.”
They rode out onto a main road.
“It confirms your-ouch!-theory, though,” said the poet.
“What does?”
“The girls in Verbena-ah!-Lodge are all victims of theusual-argh!-sad process. You know the routine, they worked asmaids, were seduced by-ooh! Ha!-their masters, fell pregnant, andwere coldly thrown out onto the streets to fend forthemselves.”
“Despicable!” Burton snarled.
“Indeed. But sadly-yowch!-all too common.”
“You don't feel guilty taking advantage of theirmisfortune?”
“Please, Richard! I never-ow!-lay a finger on them! I pay themto apply the birch, nothing more!”
“Humph!”
“Anyway, I happen to know that Betsy is an exception. She didn'tsuffer that cruel fate. She's the only one of them-oy!-who was bornin a brothel. She's the daughter of-yow!-a madam. In other words,she's never known anything-oof!-different and has probably neverharboured any expectations beyond being a-oh!-working girl.”
“The trammelled mind.”
“Ex-ah!-actly!”
No further incidents interrupted their journey, and they arrivedsome fifteen minutes later at Bartoloni's Italian restaurant inLeicester Square. It was closed and the window, which hadapparently been broken, was boarded up.