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“Hag-kissers! Slack-jaws! Dirt-gobblers! Mumblebums! Dolts!Filthy blackguards! Bulging scumbags! Gusset-sniffers! Gibberingloonies! Puppy-munchers!”
Trailing behind Miss Mayson, the men reached the other side ofthe room. The young woman unlocked a door, threw it open, andushered them through. The portal slammed shut behind them and sheleaned against it, opening the umbrella. “That's quite enough ofthat, I think! My apologies, gentlemen.”
They stood in a very spacious rain-swept yard beside a row ofcages, each containing an upright wheel. In each wheel there was adog-all greyhounds-sprinting at top speed. There must have been atleast twenty of them, and the rumble of the spi
The greyhounds were known as ru
“They've just gone to sleep,” Miss Mayson said, gesturing towardthe animals.
“They run in their sleep?” Swinburne asked wonderingly.
“Yes, which is why I had the wheels put inside their cages. It'sbetter than having them racing around the yard. The swans are overthere.”
She indicated the far end of the enclosure, where ninebreathtakingly huge birds stood in high-roofed pens. Their headswere poised, about fifteen feet up, at the top of elegantly curvednecks. Their beady eyes watched the group as it approachedthem.
“Don't worry. They're almost tame.”
“Almost?” Trounce asked, doubtfully. “Somehow, I don't find thatvery comforting.”
“If they were any wilder, they'd bite your head off before youcould blink. They're aggressive by nature.”
Trounce smoothed his mustache with his fingers.
“But four are tame enough to fly, yes?” Burton asked.
“Five,” Spencer added.
“Yes, sir, though you might struggle a bit. They're a touchheadstrong.”
“Let's get them buckled up. We have to work fast.”
Miss Mayson crossed to a shed from which she produced harnessesand big folded box kites. Then she picked up a long, thin woodencane, returned to the pens, and used it to drive out five of theenormous white birds.
“Down!” she commanded, while slapping one of the swans on itsside with the rod. It obligingly squatted, and, while Spencer heldthe umbrella over her, she showed the men how to attach the longreins to the base of the bird's neck, passing them over its back.Swinburne, who'd flown swans before, assisted her by buckling theends of lengthy leather straps to its legs and clipping the otherends to one of the box kites which Burton and Trounce hadunfolded.
While they worked, the king's agent instructed his companions:“Look out for litter-crabs.”
“Why litter-crabs?” Trounce asked in a puzzled tone.
“I noticed that the end of Saint Martin's hadn't been cleaned,”Burton responded. “Now I know why. The litter-crabs were temptedaway from it by the mega-dray. You know how the contraptions tendto follow behind the horses, cleaning up the manure. I dare saythey're still on its trail!”
“Good thinking, Captain!” the policeman exclaimed.
Miss Mayson helped Constable Bhatti into a kite. He sat on thecanvas seat, slipped his boots through the stirrups, and took thereins. The woman showed him how to control the bird.
A few minutes later, all five men were in position.
Miss Mayson stepped back. “Half a mo!” she cried. “Wait there-Ihave an idea!”
She ran back along the yard and into the training centre.
“What's she up to?” Burton grumbled truculently, but even as hespoke she reappeared and hurried over to them.
She held a small blue and yellow parakeet in her hand.
“All messenger parakeets are identified by a postcode,” shesaid. “This is POX JR5. She's one of the new breed. As long as sheknows you, she'll be able to find you. She doesn't even need youraddress. You can use her to communicate between the kites. She'llkeep up with the swans-she's the swiftest of all my birds. Tell heryour names!” She held the parakeet out to each of the men inturn.
“Captain Richard Burton.”
“Odorous thug!” the bird whistled.
“Detective Inspector William Trounce.”
“Ponderous buffoon!” it cheeped.
“Algernon Charles Swinburne.”
“Illiterate bum-pincher!” it cackled.
“Constable Shyamji Bhatti.”
“Nurdle-thwacker!” it squawked.
“Herbert Spencer.”
“Angel-faced beauty,” it crooned.
“My goodness!” Miss Mayson exclaimed. “Was that acompliment?”
Burton blew out a breath. “Please,” he said, “there's no timefor this!”
She gave a small nod and placed the parakeet on Burton'sshoulder. It hunkered down and he felt its little claws sinkinginto the soggy cloth of his overcoat.
“Good luck!” the young woman said, stepping back. “Constable,call in tomorrow and tell me all about it!”
Bhatti smiled and nodded. “Get yourself inside and dry off,” headvised. “Your slippers are wet through!”
Sir Richard Francis Burton snapped his reins the way she'd shownhim. His swan stretched out its wings, ran five steps forward, and,with a mighty flapping, soared into the air. The leather straps ofthe harness uncoiled, snaked up after it, jerked taut, and his kiteshot upward.
Thrown violently back into his canvas seat, the king's agentfound himself rising at phenomenal speed into the soddenatmosphere. The rain pelted against his face. His swan spiralledhigher and, when he glanced back, he saw that his colleagues werefollowing behind.
The chase was on!
T he water-laden air jabbed cold needles into Burton's face, butdespite being hatless-for, like the others, he'd placed hisheadgear into a spacious pocket at the back of the kite-he actuallyfelt unpleasantly warm; a sign that his malarial fever wasdeveloping rapidly. He tried to stay focused but a peculiar senseof disassociation was creeping over him.
“Bloody git-face,” POX JR5 mumbled.
The five giant swans began to circle over the western end ofOrange Street. Visibility was poor in the rain so the men flew themclose to the rooftops, except for Swinburne, who, despite being themost experienced flier, was having problems controlling his unrulybird. He was currently somewhere overhead, inside the low blanketof cloud.
Tracking the mega-dray proved easier than Burton hadanticipated.
It was Bhatti who spotted the trail. He steered his swan inbeside Burton's, but the kites, at the end of their long tethers,were flying extremely erratically due to the wind and beating rain,making it impossible to shout across to one another.
Burton spoke to the parakeet: “Pox! Message for ConstableShyamji Bhatti. Message begins. What is it? Message ends. Go.”
The brightly coloured bird launched itself from his shoulder. Afew moments later, when the constable's kite tumbled upward pasthis own, Burton saw that the messenger was already squawking intothe young policeman's ear.
The explorer shifted his hips, trying to stabilise his vehicle.It was foul weather for flying!
The parakeet returned. “Message from dribbling sponge-headConstable Shyamji Bhatti!” it whistled. “Message begins. Look offto the right, snot-picker-the bloody litter-crabs are all alongHaymarket. Message ends.”
Burton told Pox to take the message to Trounce, Swinburne, andSpencer. He then sent his swan wheeling to the right and alongHaymarket. He passed over four of the large eight-legged,steam-driven street cleaners and spotted a fifth at the end ofPiccadilly. Yanking at the reins, he veered to the left andfollowed the thoroughfare. He soared past a sixth crab, a seventh,an eighth, and Green Park hove into view. The ninth litter-crab wasclearing up a mountain of steaming manure outside the exclusiveParthenon Hotel; after that, all the way to Hyde Park Corner, hedidn't see a single one.