Страница 6 из 91
He passed through to a hallway and entered the next room, whichhe found was at the front of the building. He recognised it atonce. He'd seen it through a security grille. It wasBrundleweed's-the diamond dealer's shop.
He returned to the safe and examined it.
“Emptied out!” he said, softly. “But why would Brunel-the mostlauded engineer in the Empire-steal diamonds? It doesn't makesense!”
The public believed that Isambard Kingdom Brunel had died from astroke in 1859. They regarded him as one of the greatest Englishmenever to have lived. Little did they know that he'd actuallyretreated into a mobile life-maintaining mechanism, and, from it,still directed the Technologists’ various projects.
“What the devil is he playing at?” Burton muttered.
There was nothing further he could do here-and the longer heremained, the farther away the Steam Man and his three clockworkassistants would get.
He turned and ran back the way he'd come. It took but a fewmoments to reach the ladder and climb it.
Someone called to him as he poked his head out into the rain:“Burton! Burton! Hurry up, man!”
“Trounce? Is that you? Give me a hand, will you?”
“Wait there!”
He squinted through the downpour, saw figures milling about,sliding down the slope toward him, and was surprised when Spencerthe philosopher emerged from the rain.
“Hallo, Boss! Reach up an’ we'll ’ave you out in a jiffy!”
“Hello, Mr. Spencer! Here, grab the end of my cane!”
He extended his stick toward the vagrant, who clutched ittightly.
Burton clambered up and gripped Spencer's wrist. He saw that thebeggar was held by Trounce, who in turn was held by Bhatti.
Swinburne, who wasn't holding anybody, was jumping up and downon the other side of the fence, screeching: “Don't let go of him!Don't let go!”
The chain of men pulled Burton up out of the pit, over thefallen fence, and onto the pavement.
“By Jove!” Trounce observed. “You're a sight!”
Burton looked down at himself. He was caked with mud from top totoe. He felt as bad as he looked, but, ignoring the ache burrowingthrough his bones, he twisted off the lantern, thrust it into hispocket, and reported his discovery: “It's a diamond robbery. Theytu
“Strewth!” Constable Bhatti gasped. “Old Brundleweed took a bigdelivery a couple of days ago. The crooks must have made off with afortune!”
“And they're heading west!” Trounce declared.
“How do you know that?” Burton asked.
“Mr. Spencer saw them!” Swinburne revealed.
Burton turned to the vagrant. “Explain!”
“There were one of ’em whoppin’ great pantechnicons parked here,Boss. One of the ones what's drawn by the jumbo dray horses. Ididn't see nothin’ goin’ on, but it galloped off at a rare old pacejust a few moments afore you arrived.”
“We heard it!” Burton confirmed.
“And it passed us on Orange Street!” Trounce said. “Heaven knowswhere it is now. We'll never catch up with it!”
“Are you joking?” Burton cried. “How can we miss a horse thatsize? It's a veritable mountain!”
“True, but a fast-moving one that might have headed off in anydirection by now!”
The king's agent turned suddenly and started to race away alongMildew Street.
“Follow me!”
“What? Hey! Captain Burton!” the detective inspector shoutedafter the retreating figure. “Damn it! Come on, Bhatti!”
The two policemen took off after the king's agent. Swinburnefollowed, and behind him came Spencer, who'd decided to stick withthe group in the hope that another thruppence might beforthcoming.
They dashed into Orange Street, and Trounce hadn't gone farbefore he spotted Burton ahead, hammering on a door and bellowing,“Open up in the name of the king!”
The detective inspector recognised the building. He'd checked itjust a few minutes before: SPARTA, the automated animal trainingcentre.
In a flash, he realised what Burton was up to.
“This is the police!” he hollered officiously. “Open thedoor!”
He heard a bolt being drawn back.
Swinburne and Spencer arrived, panting.
The portal opened slightly and an eye was put to the crack.
“I was asleep!” a female voice protested.
“Madam, I'm Detective Inspector William Trounce of ScotlandYard. These are my associates and we need your help!”
The door opened wider, revealing a young woman clad in dressinggown, nightcap, and slippers. Her face was strong, oval-shaped,brown-eyed.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you any trained swans on the premises?” Burton askedbrusquely.
“Yes. No. That is to say, not fully but six are close enough.Trained, I mean.”
“Then I'm afraid we must commandeer four of them.”
“Five,” Spencer corrected.
The woman looked astonished, her eyes flicking from Burton toTrounce and back again.
“Please, ma'am,” Trounce said in a softer tone. “This is anemergency. You will be compensated.”
She stepped back. “You'd better come in. My name is Mayson,Isabella Mayson.”
They entered.
Miss Mayson lit an oil lamp and held it up.
“Merciful heavens! What happened to you!” she gasped upo
“Would you mind if I explained later, Miss Mayson? There reallyisn't any time to spare.”
“Very well. This way, please.” She lifted an umbrella from astand and led them along the passage. “I'm afraid you'll have topass the parakeets to get to the swans.”
Bhatti gri
“Through this room, gentlemen. The cages are beyond. No,Constable-um-?”
“Bhatti, Miss.”
“No, Constable Bhatti, they haven't. Wait a moment.”
She stopped at a door, fiddled with a key ring, located theappropriate key, and fitted it into the lock.
“Brace yourselves,” she advised, with a wry smile.
She opened the door and they all stepped through.
Insults exploded from the stacked cages encircling the room:“Piss-guzzlers! Cheese-brains! Stench-makers! Cross-eyed baboons!Drooling fumblers! Flush-faced sots! Blubberous flab-guts! Witlessremnants! Boneheaded contortionists! Sheep-tickling louts!Maggotous duffers! Ugly buffoons! Slime-lickers!”
It was a deafening roar, and it didn't let up for a moment asthey traversed the long chamber toward the door at its far end.
“I'm sorry!” Miss Mayson shouted at the top of her voice. “Takeit on the chin!”
Swinburne giggled.
Messenger parakeets had been one of the first practicalapplications of the Eugenicists’ science to be adopted by theBritish public. A person only had to visit a post office to giveone of their birds a message, name, and address, and the parakeetwould fly off to deliver the communication. No one but theEugenicists knew how the colourful little creatures found theaddresses, but they always did.
There was one problem.
The parakeets cursed and insulted everyone they encountered.Invariably, messages were liberally peppered with expletives notput there by the sender. Nevertheless, the system proved popular,especially as some of the birds displayed a rather amusing talentfor creating totally meaningless words that, nevertheless, soundedinsulting. These “new insults” were all the rage at Society events.Swinburne himself had recently been called a “blibberingchub-fluffer” by a parakeet delivering an invitation to a poetryreading at Lord Haverleigh's. He'd laughed about it for days. Youare cordially invited-you blibbering chub-fluffer-to an evening ofstinking poetry and abysmal piss wine -
The foul-mouthed birds demonstrated an issue that had troubledeugenics from the very start. Whatever modification the scientistsbred into a species, it always brought with it an unexpected sideeffect. The giant dray horses, for example, had no control overtheir bladders or bowels and were overproductive in bothdepartments. This had proven a serious problem in London's alreadyfilthy streets until the Engineering branch of the Technologistsinvented the automated mechanical cleaners, popularly known as“litter-crabs,” to tackle the issue.