The Curious Case Of The Clockwork Man (13 page)

“Then crawl,” de Tichborne snarled. “Crawl!”

He strode to the door, yanked it open, and bellowed: “Nurses! Take thy mistress from the bed and dress her! At once!”

The three young women, waiting outside the bedroom, looked at each other in confusion.

“My lord?” stuttered one. “What—what—?”

“Question me not, wench! Have her clothed and on the steps of the house good and prompt, or by God’s teeth you’ll suffer!”

He shoved them aside and stamped away, calling for Hobson, who met him at the bottom of the stairs. The valet had a twisted and bloodied handkerchief hanging from his left nostril.

“Bringest thou two bottles of Bordeaux up from the cellar, and be brisk about it!” de Tichborne ordered. “I shall be outside, at the front of the house!”

He then paced down the hall, joined Physician Jankyn in the library, and cried: “Here, Jankyn! Follow! We are to be right entertained!”

He led the mystified physician out, and to the lobby.

“Assist me. I would take this bench outside.”

He indicated an oak bench beside the wall near the entrance. Together, they lifted it and took it through the big double doors, across the portico, down the steps, and over the carriageway to the border of the wheat fields.

“Sit, man!”

Jankyn sat. He shivered. The sky was clear and the full moon radiated a penetrating chill.

Squire Roger de Tichborne settled beside him and chuckled to himself.

Hobson emerged from the mansion and brought over the wine bottles. De Tichborne took them and handed one to Jankyn.

“Now,” he snapped at the valet, “I require three brands and a flint to light them. Hurry, fool!”

Hobson scuttled away.

De Tichborne used his teeth to pull the cork, and took a swig from his bottle.

“Drink!” he ordered Jankyn.

“My lord, I—”

“Drink!”

Jankyn raised the bottle to his mouth, extracted the cork, and took a sip.

They sat in silence until the valet returned. De Tichborne stuck a brand in the earth at either end of the bench and lit them. He saved the third, holding it in his hand. He dismissed Hobson.

“Ah!” he breathed, moments later, looking back at the house.

Physician Jankyn turned and let out a cry of dismay at what he saw.

Lady Mabella, held upright by her nurses, had tottered out of the door and was descending the steps, a frail old woman, seemingly little more than a shroud-wrapped skeleton. In truth, she was barely clothed, having pulled a gown around her night garments, draped a shawl over the top of it, and pushed her feet into slippers.

“Blessed Mary, mother of God!” Jankyn exclaimed. “What means this?”

“Do not thou interfere, Physician, I caution thee!”

Jankyn raised the bottle to his lips again, and this time he took a large gulp.

They waited, while slowly, painfully, the dying woman tottered closer.

“Hail to thee, wife!” de Tichborne bellowed. “It is a merry night, if a little chilly!” He laughed.

The woman, who would have fallen at his feet were it not for the strength of her nurses, stood trembling before him.

“Thou art bent on this course?” she wheezed.

“Thou it was who demanded the dole,” he answered, “so the charge for the levy falls upon thy shoulders. Wouldst thou retract thy final wish?”

“Nay.”

“Then take this brand. Yonder lay the wheat fields.”

He turned to the physician. “My dear Jankyn, the Lady Mabella hath commanded that I do make an annual donation to the poor of this parish. I have agreed. The good lady will now set the amount by encircling the land whose crop she deems sufficient for the purpose.”

Jankyn, who had stood at the lady’s arrival, now fell back upon the bench in shock.

“She can barely walk, my lord!” he gasped.

De Tichborne ignored him and lit the brand. He held it out to his wife.

“Take it. Order thy nurses away. Show thou to me what I must set aside for charity. Thou hast until the brand is done.”

A bony hand reached forth and took the guttering torch. Bottomless black eyes held de Tichborne’s for a moment. A toothless mouth muttered: “Leave me!”

The nurses stepped away.

Lady Mabella swayed for a moment. With her joints cracking, she then turned and hobbled to the edge of the field.

The squire laughed wickedly and swigged his wine. He sat down.

Speechless, helpless, Physician Jankyn watched as the old woman fell to her knees and began to crawl, supporting herself with one hand while holding the brand with the other.

“See, Master Physician,” de Tichborne chuckled. “We have fine sport this night, hey? Dost thou care to make a wager? I reckon she’ll set the levy at maybe half a sack o’ grain afore the devil takes her unto his breast!”

“I cannot be party to this!” Jankyn cried. He made to stand but de Tichborne’s hand clamped down hard on his arm.

“Hold! If thou makest to leave, as God is my witness, I’ll run thee through with my sword!”

Jankyn fell back. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his brow.

The old woman crawled on.

And on.

And on.

Squire Roger de Tichborne became increasingly uneasy as his wife traversed the border of the lengthy field before him and passed beyond it to the next, pulling herself up the long sloping side, across the far end, and now back down toward him. By the orange glow of her torch, he could see that her knees were bleeding and tears streamed down her face.

“Fie! From whence doth the crone’s strength come?” he muttered. “The devil himself, I’ll warrant! The damned enchantress!”

“By the saints, my lord,” the physician said, slurring his words slightly. “How many acres hath the Lady Mabella encompassed?”

“If she returneth to us before the brand is extinguished, nigh on twenty-three!”

Painful inch after painful inch, the dying woman crawled the remaining length of the border until, finally, she dragged herself across the carriageway and collapsed onto her face at de Tichborne’s feet. The torch crackled, guttered, and died.

The squire poured the last dregs of wine down his throat then threw the bottle aside with savage force.

He looked down at the woman, his lips curling back from his teeth.

“Attend her!”

The physician crouched and pulled Lady Mabella over onto her back. Her eyes rolled then fixed intently on her husband. Her lips moved.

“What?” de Tichborne snapped. “Doth she speak?”

“Aye, my lord. She biddeth thee bend closer.”

The aristocrat snorted but, nevertheless, squatted on his haunches.

The old woman whispered: “Two fields of wheat, sir. Two fields!”

Her husband hissed vehemently.

“Thinkest thou that I would honour my word to a slattern and sorceress? Foul necromancer! Scold! Shrew! Two fields of wheat to the poor? Never! They shall receive naught from me!”

“Then listen thou to my final words, O husband,” Lady Mabella whispered. “From my heart, I curse thee and thine, and this curse shall hold true through all the ages. Should the allotted dole fail for e’en a single year, there shall be seven sons born to this house, aye, and nary a one shall sire a man-child. Seven daughters shall follow, and the name of de Tichborne will thus be lost for all time. And the house itself shall fall into ruin, until naught but wind-borne dust remains of thy family!”

Her eyes closed and a rattle sounded from her throat.

The physician looked up.

“The Lady Mabella is dead, my lord.”

“And may the devil have her eyes!” The squire looked across the wheat fields. “Hang it! Twenty-three acres, Jankyn!”

“Wilt thou accede to the lady’s wish, then?”

“I have but little choice. The witch’s curse is upon the family now.”

He looked up at the stars and muttered: “Heaven grant mercy upon those who follow!”

Sir Richard Francis Burton sat with his mouth open, his wine glass held inches from it. He blinked, took a breath, and gasped: “Good God! The man was an animal!”

Henry Arundell agreed: “A cad of the first order, and his brutality has had a lasting influence, for every year since he killed his wife—let us not pretend he did otherwise—the Tichbornes have paid the dole, with the exception of a short period that began in 1796.”

“What happened then?”

“The seventh baronet, Sir Henry, who’d been travelling overseas for some considerable time, returned to Tichborne House, stopped the dole, and declared the estate off-limits to all. For the next few years, he lived as a recluse, not emerging from his self-imposed isolation until the Napoleonic Wars. By this time, the eldest of his seven sons had produced only daughters and the others were childless. When a large part of the manor fell down, Sir Henry realised that the curse was upon him. He immediately restored the annual contribution, had the rest of the house demolished, and built the current manor on its foundations.”

“You say he travelled,” Burton interjected. “Do you know where?”

“Mainly in the Americas, I believe. Anyway, despite the resurrection of the dole, the Tichbornes’ misfortunes weren’t quite over. While fighting in France, Sir Henry’s third son, James, married an ill-tempered girl named Henriette-Felicité. Though she bore a male heir to the estate—Roger Charles Doughty Tichborne, born in January of 1829—her marriage to James soon faltered.”

Arundell broke off as a waiter approached. “Shall we order?” he asked Burton.

The king’s agent, who’d been absorbed in the other man’s tale, waved his hand distractedly and said: “Yes, yes, of course, please do.”

Henry Arundell requested a chicken vindaloo and Burton, hardly caring what he ate, asked for the same.

“So this Roger Tichborne is the prodigal who’s lately been the preoccupation of all the journalists?”

“Yes. He was doted on by his mother and raised as a Frenchman. He didn’t learn to speak English until he was about twelve years old, and always spoke it with a strong French accent.

“A second son was born, too. A surprise, really, considering that James and his wife grew to hate each other. This one, Alfred, was a weak-willed lad, and was all but ignored by Henriette-Felicité, who remained devoted to her firstborn.

“To return for a moment to the grandfather, Sir Henry; when he died, one of his other sons, James’s elder brother Edward, became the eighth baronet. Edward had changed his surname to Doughty as a condition of an inheritance. This is where my family comes into it, for after becoming Sir Edward Doughty, he married my aunt, Katherine Arundell, and they had a child, ‘Kattie’ Doughty, in 1834. She became romantically involved with young Roger Tichborne, who had, after being educated at Stonyhurst Jesuit School, joined the Sixth Dragoon Guards, and was spending his furloughs at Tichborne House. My aunt objected strongly to this romance on the grounds that Roger lacked prospects and didn’t act in a sufficiently English manner. Plus, of course, he and the girl were cousins.

“Having been banned from seeing Kattie for at least three years, Roger determined to prove himself. Typically, he followed a flight of fancy. According to a family legend, Sir Henry had discovered a fabulous diamond in South America—”

“
What
?” Burton cried, causing an outbreak of tut-tutting from the surrounding tables.

Arundell looked at him in astonishment then shook his head. “No, no, Burton,” he said. “It’s just a fancy. There’s never been anything to substantiate it—certainly no such gem has ever been seen, and, considering the family’s current finances, it obviously doesn’t exist.”

“Frankly, I hardly know what to think!” Burton revealed.

“Why so?”

“Because the—the—well, it doesn’t matter—suffice it to say that I’ve experienced rather a profound coincidence!”

“Anything I should know about?”

“No. Yes. No. Um—my apologies, sir, I’m somewhat at a loss. A few weeks ago there was a rather daring diamond robbery—”

“I don’t remember that.”

“It wasn’t reported. Scotland Yard has been keeping it quiet while the investigation proceeds. I had some involvement with the affair, and my subsequent inquiries suggest that the missing diamonds are connected with one that is rumoured to have been discovered in Chile by an English aristocrat.”

“Ah.”

“I wasn’t told the aristocrat’s name.”

“So now you’re thinking it was Sir Henry Tichborne? I’m sorry to disappoint you but, really, the whole thing is nothing but a fairy tale.”

Burton cleared his throat at the mention of fairies.

“An enticing one, to be sure,” Arundell continued. “Certainly young Roger fell under its spell, and decided to visit all the places where his grandfather had travelled in the hope that he, too, would stumble upon untold wealth. A quite ridiculous endeavour, and it would have been an utter waste of time had he gone through with it—but no sooner did he step ashore at Valparaiso than word reached him that his uncle, Sir Edward Doughty, had passed away.”

“So the baronetcy passed to his father, James?”

“Quite so—until, seven days later, Sir James dropped dead from heart failure. Our prodigal was now the new baronet, entitled to all the wealth and estates of the Tichbornes. Rather eagerly, I imagine, he hopped aboard a ship—
La Bella
—to make his way home. On the 20th of April, 1854, it sank without a trace, and the third baronet in less than a fortnight was lost. His young brother, Alfred, inherited the estate instead, and would have bankrupted it in no time at all had his mother not sent her friend Colonel Lushington to Tichborne House to take him in hand.”

Henry Arundell paused to sip his wine and to nod a greeting to an acquaintance seated at a nearby table.

Burton asked: “If Sir Alfred is such a liability, why are the Arundell and Doughty families so concerned that his elder brother has shown up alive and well? Why contest Roger Tichborne’s claims to the baronetcy?”

The older man blew out an exasperated breath and said in a sharp tone: “Simply because the man currently in Paris is most definitely not Roger Tichborne.”

The king’s agent looked surprised. “He isn’t? That’s not what Lady Henriette-Felicité says. Surely you don’t doubt a mother’s recognition of her own son?”