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“And what is our metal friend's story, do you think?” asked Burton.
“Like I said, Captain, it's clockwork. My guess is that it's wound down. Why it was out walking the streets, I couldn't venture to guess.”
“Surely if it was walking the streets, it would have attracted attention before it got here? Did anyone see it coming?”
“We've been making enquiries,” Trounce said. “So far we've found fourteen who spotted it crossing the square but no one who saw it before then.”
“So it's possible-maybe even probable-that it was delivered to the edge of the square in a vehicle,” Burton suggested.
“Why, yes, Captain. I should say that's highly likely,” the detective inspector agreed.
“It could have made its way through the streets, though,” Bhatti said. “I'm not suggesting it did-I simply mean that the device is capable of that sort of navigation. You see this through here?” He tapped a finger on the top porthole at the front of the machine's head. “That's a babbage in there. Can you believe it? I never thought I'd live to see one! Imagine the cost of this thing!”
“A cabbage, Constable?” Trounce asked.
“Babbage,” Bhatti repeated. “A device of extraordinary complexity. They calculate probability and act on the results. They're the closest things to a human brain ever created, but the secret of their construction is known only to one man-their inventor, Sir Charles Babbage.”
“He's a recluse, isn't he?” Swinburne asked.
“Yes, sir, and an eccentric misanthrope. He has an aversion to what he terms ‘the common hordes’ and, in particular, to the noise they make, so he prefers to keep himself to himself. He hand-builds each of these calculators and booby-traps them to prevent anyone from discovering how they operate. Any attempt to dismantle one will result in an explosion.”
“There should be a law against that sort of thing!” Trounce grumbled.
“My point is that when wound up, this brass man almost certainly has the ability to make basic decisions. And this here-” Bhatti indicated the middle opening on the thing's head “-is, in my opinion, a mechanical ear. I think you could give this contraption voice commands. And these-” he flicked the projecting wires “-are some sort of sensing device, I'd wager, along the lines of a moth's ante
Trounce pulled off his bowler hat and scratched his head.
“So let's get this straight: someone drops this clockwork man at the edge of the square. The device walks as far as Nelson's Column, then its spring winds down and it comes to a halt. A crowd gathers. According to the people we've spoken to, the machine got here just five minutes or so before you arrived on the scene, Constable. And you've been here-?”
“About an hour now, sir.”
“About an hour. My question, then, is why hasn't the owner come forward to claim his property?”
“Exactly!” Bhatti agreed. “A babbage alone is worth hundreds of pounds. Why has it been left here?”
“An experiment gone wrong?” Swinburne offered. “Perhaps the owner was testing its homing instinct. He dropped it here, went back to his house or workshop or laboratory or whatever, and is waiting there for it to make its way back. Only he didn't wind the blessed thing up properly!”
Burton snorted. “Ridiculous! If you owned-or had invented-something as expensive as this, you wouldn't abandon it, hoping it'll find you, when there's even the remotest chance that it might not!”
Spots of rain began to fall.
Trounce glanced at the black, starless sky with impatience.
“Constable Hoare!” he shouted, and a bushy-browed, heavily mustached policeman emerged from the crowd and strode over.
“Sir?”
“Go to Saint Martin's Station and hitch a horse to a wagon. Bring it back here. On the double, mind!”
“Yes, sir!”
The constable departed and Trounce turned back to Burton.
“I'm going to have it carted over to the Yard. You'll have complete access to it, of course.”
The king's agent pulled his collar tightly around his neck. The temperature was dropping and he was shivering.
“Thank you, Detective Inspector,” he said, “but we were just passing. I don't think there's anything here we need to take a hand in. It's curious, though, I'll admit. Will you let me know if someone claims the thing?”
“Certainly.”
“See you later, then. Come on, Algy, let's leg it to the Venetia. I need that coffee!”
The powerfully built explorer and undersized poet left the policemen, pushed through the throng, and headed across to the end of the Strand. As they entered the famous thoroughfare, the drizzle became a downpour. It hammered a tattoo against their top hats and dribbled from the brims.
Burton's headache was worsening and he was starting to feel tired and out of sorts.
A velocipede went past, hissing loudly as the rain hit its furnace.
Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed-a litter-crab warning that it was about to disinfect a road with blasts of scalding steam. It was a waste of time in this weather, but the crabs were automated and clanked around London every night, whatever the conditions.
“It's a good job brass doesn't rust,” Swinburne observed, “or this weather would be the death of the clockwork man!”
Burton stopped.
“What is it?” his assistant asked.
“You're right!”
“Of course I am. It's an alloy of copper and zinc.”
“No, no! About it being a coincidence!”
Swinburne hopped up and down. “What? What? Richard, can we please get out of this blasted rain?”
“Too much of a coincidence!”
Burton turned and took off back in the direction of Trafalgar Square.
“We're already too late!” he yelled over his shoulder.
Swinburne scampered along behind him, losing ground rapidly.
“What do you mean? Too late for what?”
He received no answer.
They raced into Trafalgar Square and rejoined Trounce and Bhatti. The latter had managed to open the uppermost portal in the machine's head and was peering in at the babbage.
“Oh, you're back! Look at this, Captain!” he said, as Burton reached his side. “There are eight tiny switches along the inside edge of this opening. Maybe they adjust the machine's behaviour in some ma
“Never mind that!” the king's agent snapped. “Tell me the route of your beat, Constable!”
“My beat?” Bhatti looked puzzled.
“What's happening?” Trounce asked.
Burton ignored the detective inspector. His eyes blazed intently.
“Your beat, man! Spit it out!”
The constable pushed his helmet back from his eyes. Rainwater trickled down the back of his uniform. “All right,” he said. “From here I proceed along Cockspur Street and around into Whitcomb Street. I walk up as far as the junction with Orange Street then turn right and keep on until I reach Mildew Street. I turn right again, at the works where they're shoring up the underground river, enter Saint Martin's, and foot-slog it back down to the square.”
“And that takes fifty minutes?” Burton demanded.
“When you figure in all the alleyways that I poke my nose into, the shop doors that need checking, and so forth, yes.”
“And places of note on the route? Places you check with the greatest diligence?”
“What's this about, Captain Burton?”
“Just answer the confounded question, man!”
“Do as he says, lad,” Trounce ordered.
“Very well. There's the main branch of the Bright Empire Bank on the corner of Cockspur; the Satyagraha Bank is on Whitcomb; Treadwell's Post Office is on Orange Street, with SPARTA just opposite-”
“Sparta?”
“The Swan, Parakeet, and Ru
“Ah. Continue, please.”
“The League of Enochians Gentlemen's Club is at the corner of Mildew, with the works on the other side; then going down Saint Martin's, there's Scra