Страница 76 из 91
The clockwork man had wound down.
Corpulent fingers closed around Spencer's neck.
Swinburne started shooting, pressing the trigger nodule againand again.
“Trounce!” he shrilled. “Your pistol! Your pistol!”
There was no response. The detective was either out cold ordead.
Spencer yelled as he was yanked off his feet.
“Meat!” bellowed Orton triumphantly and sank his teeth into theback of the philosopher's neck. His victim's scream of agony wascut short as vertebrae crunched and shattered, and a gobbet ofpulsating flesh was wrenched free.
Orton twisted Herbert Spencer's head off and threw it to oneside. It bounced away across the cobbles. Blood pumped from thesevered neck, and the monstrous butcher laughed as it sprayed overhis face.
“No,” Swinburne sobbed. “Oh Jesus, please no.”
Holding Spencer's twitching corpse with the larger of his hands,Orton plunged the other into the neck, pushing it deep into thebody.
“Aaah,” he sighed, and when he pulled the dripping red arm backout, the philosopher's still-beating heart was gripped in hisfingers. He tore it free of stretching arteries and flesh, raisedit to his mouth, and licked it.
“Why won't you fucking die?” Swinburne raged, tears streamingdown his cheeks.
The Claimant turned and regarded the poet. He gri
Swinburne raised the cactus gun and, without aiming, touched thetrigger nodule.
Spines sank into Orton's right eye.
The butcher flinched, shook his head, and waddled slowly towardthe tiny man.
“More meat! I like meat!”
Swinburne turned to run but suddenly found himself gripped byvaporous hands. Two wraiths had swooped upon him and now, just asthey had dragged Sir Alfred Tichborne through Tichborne House tohis doom, so they began to pull Swinburne to his.
“Get off me! Get off me!”
Orton gave a bloody smile and said: “Come to me. I eat youup!”
Closer and closer Swinburne was drawn, until the giganticbutcher towered over him, dripping blood onto his flame-redhair.
“Yum yum,” Orton drawled, through a mouthful of HerbertSpencer's heart.
He reached out and caught the poet by the lapels. He lifted himinto the air. The wraiths floated beside Swinburne, holding hisarms, preventing him from using the cactus pistol.
Orton spat the lump of flesh from his mouth. His lips peeledback from the big green incisor teeth. His jaws opened. He leanedforward, his mouth approaching the poet's ski
Swinburne suddenly felt completely calm.
“Two things,” he said, looking straight into the little piggyeyes. “Firstly, I concede defeat.”
Orton stopped and regarded the small man.
“You've won. So why not rein yourself in a little? After all,London is on its knees. The Houses of Parliament are halfdestroyed. Buckingham Palace is under siege. The working classesare in control. My friends have been beaten into submission orkilled. I mean to say, there's no need to dine on an insignificantlittle poet like me just to prove a point, is there?”
Orton gave a bubbling chuckle and licked his lips.
“Meat!” he hissed.
“Yes,” the poet continued. “I thought you might say that, whichbrings me to my second point, which is this: your ma
Emitting an animal growl, the Claimant opened his mouth wide andplaced his teeth against Swinburne's throat.
There was a sound- thunk! -and the poet suddenly fell to theground, the wraiths swirling away from him.
He looked up.
Arthur Orton's head was transfixed by a huge African spear,which had pierced his skull above the right ear and exited beneaththe left. Blood and grey brain matter oozed from its point.
The man who'd called himself Roger Tichborne toppled backward,hit the road with a tremendous thud, and lay still.
Algernon Swinburne sat bemused. Then he looked to his left atnumber 14 Montagu Place. In the gaping hole where the study windowhad once been, Sir Richard Francis Burton stood, his Dervish robesfluttering slightly in the breeze.
“M ay Allah bless thee and grant thee peace,” Al-Masloubmurmured.
“And peace and blessings upon thee,” Burton replied. “You arecertain you do not require an escort?”
“Allah is our escort.”
“Then I am assured of your safety. Until next time, myfriend.”
Al-Masloub smiled and bowed and he and his fellow musiciansdeparted, slipping into the thickening atmosphere of MontaguPlace.
“You, on the other hand,” Burton said, turning to Mrs. Angell,“most definitely will be escorted.”
“I should stay, Sir Richard,” his housekeeper protested. “Lookat the state of the house! It's a terrible mess!”
“And one that I shall see to. Your carriage awaits, MotherAngell. A constable will drive you to the station and stay with youon the train all the way to Herne Bay. A few days in a bed andbreakfast enjoying some fresh sea air will work wonders on yournerves.”
“There's nothing wrong with my nerves.”
“Well, there jolly well ought to be after what you've beenthrough today! Now off with you, and I promise to have this placeas good as new by the time you get back.”
Reluctantly, the old lady descended the front steps, accepted ahelping hand from a policeman, and climbed into the brougham parkedjust in front of the prime minister's mobile castle. With a quickblast of its steam-horse's whistle, the carriage chugged away,heading to the Queen Victoria Memorial Railway Station.
Detective Inspector Trounce emerged from the mist.
“Your local postmaster is a stubborn ass!” he complained. “Heabsolutely refused to open up shop. I had to threaten him witharrest.”
“Can you blame him, after this?” Burton responded, indicatingthe debris-filled road.
“Humph! I suppose not. Anyway, I sent off a parakeet to ScotlandYard. More men will be here in due course.” He hesitated. “And amortuary van is on its way.”
Burton gave a curt jerk of his head in acknowledgement and thetwo men entered the house.
The king's agent said: “Pox found Constable Bhatti, who sayshe's on his way. The bird has since been racing back and forthbetween here and Battersea Power Station. Brunel has agreed toassist us.”
Trounce reached up and gingerly felt the big bump on his head.“Ouch! So the Steam Man will fight alongside us rather than againstus on this occasion?”
“Yes, although not literally. There are a lot of springs in thatlumbering life-maintaining contraption of his. If the mechanismceased to function, he'd die. Best to keep him out of the enemy'srange.”
They passed Admiral Lord Nelson, who, rewound, and with thecactus pistol in one hand and a rapier in the other, was standingguard in the hallway.
“Same applies to him, then,” Trounce said, indicating thevalet.
“No,” Burton replied.
“No? But he's chock-a-block full of springs!”
“Yes.”
“So our opponent will stop him with ease.”
“I'm counting on it.”
“What? By Jove, what the blazes are you up to?”
“All in due course, Trounce, old man. All in due course.”
Algernon Swinburne came down the stairs. His eyes were hoodedand his jaw set hard. Herbert Spencer's death had affected the poetgreatly.
“I've locked the Choir Stones in the safe in your library,Richard. They were giving us headaches.”
“Thank you, Algy.”
The three of them entered the seldom-used dining room. LordPalmerston, Burke and Hare, and the prime minister's driver wereseated around the large table.
“Gentlemen, we have very little time to spare,” Burtona