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Their flight was short and uneventful, though they saw manypolice fliers skimming low over the rooftops.
When they reached Coram's Fields, they reduced altitude andsteered their machines through the drifting tatters of smoke fromstreet to street until, below, they spotted a constable on hisbeat.
Swinburne landed near the policeman and stopped his rotorchair'sengine.
“I say! Constable!”
“I shouldn't park here, sir, if I-Hallo! Here comes anotherone!”
Spencer's vehicle angled down onto the road, hit it with athump, and skidded to a halt with sparks showering from itsru
Fidget barked.
“Gents,” the policeman said as the engine noise died down, “thisis no time and no night to be out and about in expensivevehicles!”
“We're on the king's business!” Swinburne proclaimed. “I'd likeyou to guard these chairs and have them returned to 14 MontaguPlace at the first opportunity.”
The constable removed his helmet and scratched his head.“Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I don't know that you're in anyposition to give me orders, ‘specially ones that'll take me from myduties.”
“My good man, I am Sir Richard Francis Burton's personalassistant,” Swinburne countered haughtily. He pulled a card fromhis pocket and waved it in the man's face. “And Sir Richard FrancisBurton is the king's agent. And the king, God bless him, is theruler of the land. It also happens that I claim Detective InspectorTrounce and Detective Inspector Honesty of Scotland Yard as closepersonal friends. Then there's Commander Krishnamurthy, ConstableBhatti-”
“Stop! I surrender!” the policeman said, taking the card. Heread it, handed it back, put on his helmet, saluted, and said:“Right you are, sir. My apologies. I'll see that your machines arereturned in good time. How about if I have them shifted to the Yardfor the night? For safekeeping?”
“Thank you. That will be most satisfactory, my man. I shall besure to mention-Ow! Herbert! I told you to keep that little devilaway from me! Goodbye, Constable. Thank you for yourassistance!”
The policeman nodded, and Swinburne, Spencer, and Fidget crossedthe road and approached the corner of Gallows Tree Lane.
Swinburne whispered, “If you see any Rakes, walk straight pastthem! Act normally.”
“That I can do,” Spencer mumbled inaudibly. “Du
They entered the dimly lit street and stopped outside number 5.The house was in darkness.
Swinburne hissed, “Keep a tight rein on the dog, Herbert. I haveto squat down to speak to him and I'd rather not have my nosebitten!”
“Right ho.”
“Now then, you vicious little toerag,” Swinburne said to thebasset hound, “where's your master, hey? Seek, Fidget! Seek!Where's your master? I know the air is full of ash, but I'm surethose blessed nostrils of yours can sort the wheat from the chaff.Seek!”
Fidget's deep brown eyes, which had been regarding him withdisdain, slowly lost focus.
“Find your master!” Swinburne encouraged.
Fidget blinked, looked to the right, then to the left, then atSwinburne, then at Herbert Spencer.
“Wuff!”
He lowered his nose to the pavement and began to snuffle backand forth.
All of a sudden, he raised his head, bayed wildly, and set offat a terrific pace, almost yanking Spencer off his feet.
“He's got it!” Swinburne enthused, racing after the pair.
They ran out onto Gray's I
“He seems mighty sure of himself!” Spencer puffed as theygalloped along.
“That nose never fails!” Swinburne panted. “It saved my lifelast year. It's just a shame it's attached to the rest of thebeast!”
At the junction with Russell Square, they encountered twoconstables who were grappling with a mad-eyed individual dressed ina bloodstained butcher's apron.
“What the devil do you think you're doing out and about at thistime of night?” one of the policemen yelled at them.
“Government business!” Swinburne declared.
“Pull the other one, it's got bells on it!”
“Aargh!” the butcher howled. “Look at the little one! Thered-haired git! He's a bloody toff! Kill ‘im! Kill ‘im!”
“Shut up,” the second policeman snapped. He grunted as the man'sknee thudded into his stomach, and groaned to his companion: “Bashthe blighter on the head, Bill!”
The poet, philosopher, and basset hound ran past the brawlingtrio and kept going.
Fidget led the two men onward until the bottom end of Regent'sPark hove into view. The trail led past it and onto MaryleboneRoad. They had run about a mile so far.
“I never thought I'd be thankful for a riot!” Swinburnegasped.
“What do you mean, lad?”
“Isn't it obvious? Whoever's got Richard couldn't findtransport! They're on foot!”
They hurried on for another mile. The road, one of the city'smain highways, was empty of people but filled with rubble andwreckage. Fires still blazed and they found themselves plungingthrough clouds of black smoke. Many gas lamps had been vandalised,too, and lengths of the thoroughfare were pitch dark.
“Whoops!” Spencer cried as Fidget made an unexpected leftturn.
“Bishop's Bridge Road,” Swinburne noted.
Just ahead of them, the lights of Paddington Railway Stationflared out from within an enormous cloud of white steam. Fidgetplunged straight into it.
The terminal was a scene of out-and-out chaos. A locomotive hadderailed while entering the station, ploughing into one of theplatforms. It was lying on its side with its boiler split open,vapour shooting out of the ripped metal.
Policemen and station workers milled about, and the momentSwinburne and Spencer stepped into the building, a constable, whosefeatures were dominated by a truly enormous mustache, pounced onthem.
“Stop right there! What are you two up to?” He looked atSwinburne curiously. “Hello hello. Haven't I seen you somewherebefore? Hey up! I know! It was back when that brass man was left inTrafalgar Square! Constable Hoare is the name, sir. SamuelHoare.”
“Hello, Hoare. We're on official business! Have a squint atthis.”
Burton's assistant presented his credentials to the uniformedman, who examined them and raised his bushy eyebrows.
Fidget whined and tugged desperately at his lead. Hoare shookhis head.
“This is too much for me,” he said. “I'll call my supervisorover, if you don't mind.” He cupped his hands around his mouth andyelled into the cloud: “Commander! Commander!”
Swinburne breathed a sigh of relief as the steam parted andCommander Krishnamurthy strode into view. He was wearing the newFlying Squad uniform of a long brown leather coat and a flat peakedofficer's hat. A pair of flying goggles dangled around hisneck.
“What ho! What ho! What ho!” the poet cried happily.“Krishnamurthy, old horse! Why, I haven't seen you since the Battleof Old Ford! Aren't you sweltering in all that leather?”
“Hallo, Swinburne, old chap!” Krishnamurthy exclaimed, with anunrestrained grin. He grabbed his friend's hand and shook it. “YesI am! Regulations, a hex on ’em! What on earth are you doing here,and at this time of night? Wait a minute-” he looked at Spencer“-aren't you Herbert Spencer, the philosopher chap? Mycousin-Shyamji Bhatti-is always talking about you. Singing yourpraises, in fact.”
“That's very kind of him; he's a good fellow!” Spencer replied.“You look like him.”
“Dashingly handsome, you mean? Thanks very much. So what's thestory, Mr. Swinburne?”
“Fidget's nose has led us here. We're tracking Richard. He's introuble!”
Krishnamurthy looked down at the basset hound. “Well, this isn'tthe end of the trail by the looks of it. Let him lead on, we'll seewhere he takes us. You can tell me all about it on the way. Staywith us, Constable Hoare!”
“Yes, sir,” the mustachioed policeman answered.