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“I-” Palmerston said, but a thick arm was suddenly wrappedaround his waist and Hare hoisted him off his feet, carried himpast Burke and Swinburne, and plonked him into the storeroom.
“Unhand me, sir!” came his receding protest.
Burke turned to the poet: “I'm sorry, Mr. Swinburne, but LordPalmerston's safety is my and Mr. Hare's primary duty. I have nochoice but to leave you and your companions to defend this house asbest you can. Besides which, we are somewhat hampered by ourinjuries. If our attackers make it past you, hopefully you willhave weakened them enough for us to be able to deal with them.”
“You mean to make of us a forlorn hope?” Swinburne asked.“Ruthless bugger, aren't you?”
“You object?”
Swinburne gri
“Thank you, sir. Um-” Burke looked at the cactus pistol in hishand “-I should keep hold of this but Mr. Hare and I are armed withrevolvers and, under the circumstances-”
He passed the strange weapon to the poet, quickly explained itsuse, then turned away, entered the storeroom, and closed thedoor.
Swinburne let loose a breath and whispered: “Tally-ho!” Hedescended the stairs. As he reached the landing, he saw Mrs. Angellin the hallway below, carrying a coffee pot and cups on a tray.
There was a knock at the front door.
The housekeeper immediately put the tray down on the hall tableand reached for the door handle.
“Don't!” Swinburne yelled.
It was too late. Even as she turned to look up at him, Mrs.Angell's fingers had twisted the doorknob.
The portal swung inward, pushed by a big bloated hand.
The old woman staggered backward and screamed.
A bulging mass of clothing blocked the threshold. Swinburnerecognised it at once: the Tichborne Claimant!
The hideous head came ducking under the lintel and, as thehulking mass of blubbery flesh pushed through after it, Mrs. Angelldropped in a dead faint.
Swinburne raised the cactus pistol and pressed the triggernodule. He missed. Spines thudded into the doorframe. The Claimantraised his repulsive face, looked at the poet, and smiledsweetly.
“You must be Algy.”
His voice was female, with a Russian accent.
“Forgive me for not visiting you in person, kotyonok, but I am alittle stretched at the moment.” The Claimant glanced down at hiscorpulent belly. He looked back up at the poet and chuckled. “He hehe! Horribly stretched! But as a matter of fact, I was referring tothe uprising. It goes well, does it not? Your capital burns! Ha ha!How your poor King Albert must tremble!”
“Who the hell are you?” Swinburne snarled.
The door beside him opened and Detective Inspector Trouncestepped out.
“What's going- Bloody hell!”
“Ah, is that William Trounce? How gratifying. I do hope you haveHerbert Spencer with you, too. It would be so convenient if myemissary can kill you all at once before he retrieves Sir Richard.Really, it was very rude of you to take him from me before I'dfinished ruining that extraordinary mind of his. I would have comefor him sooner but I have so much to do. I am quite dreadfullybusy. Ah well, let us proceed. Time for you to die! As we say inRussia: Bare derutsya-u kholopov chuby treschat! Farewell!”
The Claimant's eyes suddenly dulled. He emitted a loud bellow,in his own voice, and started up the stairs. His girth was suchthat the banister and its balusters cracked, splintered, and fellaway from the staircase as he heaved himself up.
Trounce went to draw his police revolver. It snagged in hispocket.
“Confound it!” he cursed.
Swinburne raised the spine-shooter and fired again, hitting theadvancing monstrosity in the chest. The spines had no effect otherthan to elicit another roar.
The poet and policeman retreated into the study.
“What's happenin’?” Herbert Spencer asked.
“Big trouble,” Trounce grunted. “Very big indeed!”
The Claimant blocked the doorway, wedged his vast body into it,and began to shove himself through. The door frame split.
“Cover your ears,” Trounce muttered. Swinburne and Spencer didso. The Scotland Yard man had finally freed his revolver. He fireda shot into one of the unwelcome visitor's beefy thighs.
The Claimant yelled incoherently, grabbed the side and top ofthe door, and ripped it from its hinges. He threw it atTrounce.
The slab of wood smashed into the detective inspector and senthim stumbling backward. He fell to his knees, dazed.
“Repulsive toad!” Pox squawked, and sought refuge on top of abookcase.
Herbert Spencer grabbed a brass poker from the hearth andbrandished it like a sword.
“What'll we do, lad?” he mumbled, gaping at the slowly advancingmountain of flesh.
Swinburne, standing beside the vagrant philosopher, becameconscious that the mantelpiece was at his back. No retreat. Heglanced to the left. Both the study windows were closed. No escapethere, not that anyone could survive the jump. He grimaced. Hishead had started aching and his thoughts were becoming turgid andconfused. He was feeling the baleful influence of the Choir Stones,which were still embedded in the Claimant's scalp. He felt an urgeto welcome Sir Roger Tichborne to the house and to help him fighthis enemies.
He gritted his teeth.
He looked to the right and saw Admiral Lord Nelson standingimmobile by the door to the dressing room.
The faux aristocrat lumbered closer.
A fat hand reached out.
Swinburne, without thinking, screeched: “Nelson! Throw thisobese bastard out of the house the fastest way possible! Atonce!”
The clockwork man bent his upper torso forward and acceleratedaway from the wall, a blur of gleaming metal.
The Claimant turned toward the movement.
Nelson collided with the giant's belly, snapped his mechanicalarms out straight, and pushed with all his spring-loaded might.
Neither Swinburne nor Herbert Spencer had any inkling that theclockwork man possessed the power that, in a shocking instant, nowbecame evident.
The whalelike mass of the Tichborne Claimant was thrown into theair and right across the study. He hit the window and went outthrough it, taking the glass, the frame, and a considerable chunkof the wall on either side of it with him.
The shattering crash was tremendous, and was followed by theclatter and bangs of falling masonry as the front part of 14Montagu Place suffered his unexpected exit.
Detective Inspector Trounce, shaking his head to clear it,staggered to his feet and peered around at the room. It looked asif a bomb had exploded in it. The Claimant's passage had wreckedfurniture, brick dust swirled around, and Burton's papers wereraining down like autumn leaves.
“Bloody hell!” he gasped.
Admiral Lord Nelson turned to the poet and saluted.
“Yes, thank you, old chap,” Swinburne responded meekly. “Veryeffective, though not quite as neat as the trick they worked on SirAlfred. My hat! Mrs. Angell is going to kill me.”
Herbert Spencer gingerly approached the gaping hole in the walland squinted out at the street below. It was enshrouded by steam,billowing about in a slight breeze. He saw movement in thecloud.
“Gents,” he said quietly. “Do you happen to have a spare pistolI could borrow? That thing ain't dead.”
“You're not serious?” Trounce exclaimed.
“It's layin’ on the pavement but it looks to me like it's justwinded.”
The Scotland Yard man retrieved his revolver from the floor.
Swinburne stepped up to one of Burton's desks and pulled apistol from its drawer. He handed it to Spencer.
Trounce growled: “Let's get out there and finish thatabomination off!”
He set his jaw and marched out of the study. Spencer andSwinburne followed. The poet looked back over his shoulder atNelson.
“Come on, Admiral.”
The three men and the clockwork device descended to the hallway.Trounce quickly checked Mrs. Angell, who was sitting dazed againstthe wall.