The Curious Case Of The Clockwork Man (29 page)

“She was a fishmonger,
But sure ‘twas no wonder,
For so were her father and mother before,
And they each wheeled their barrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o!’”

The wraith hovered around the man. For a moment the apparition became almost completely opaque, taking on the appearance of a tall, stooped bearded man, then it faded from sight. The chaunter paused, winced, shook his head, then continued singing, but his song had changed, though he didn’t seem to realise it:

“Give me the man of honest heart,
I like no two-faced dodger,
But one who nobly speaks his part,
Like Kenealy does for Roger!
One honest lawyer’s found at last,
Who’ll ne’er desert his client,
He knows right well the cause is just,
He stands up like a giant.

“Then say men say,
Be you low or rich born,
And have fair play,
For Kenealy and for Tichborne.”

“Aye!” a passing costermonger cried. “Give a cheer for brave Sir Roger!”

Various voices answered his call: “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

“Bastard upper-crust bastards!” a milk deliveryman yelled. “Bastard bloomin’ bastards!”

He bent, pulled a loose cobble from the road, and threw it through a house window.

Burton and Herbert Spencer, dragging Swinburne and Fidget along, entered Montagu Place and mounted the steps of number 14.

The front door was open. A table had been overturned in the hallway, pictures on the wall were hanging askew, and young Oscar Wilde, the newspaper seller, was picking pieces of a shattered vase up from the floor inside. His face was scratched, as if gouged by fingernails.

Muffled screams and thuds sounded from the cupboard beneath the stairs.

“What’s been happening here, Quips?” Burton exclaimed, plonking Swinburne onto a hall chair.

“Oh, there you are, Captain,” said Oscar. “I was passing by and heard some sort of brouhaha from your house. As you know, my own business always bores me to death, I prefer other people’s, so I poked my nose in. It seems your little maid has lost her mind. She was attacking Mrs. Angell, so she was.”

“What? Young Elsie? Is Mrs. Angell all right? Where is she?”

“Don’t be worrying yourself, Captain, she’s fine and dandy. She took herself downstairs to rest awhile. I said I’d clean up the mess.”

“Thank you, Quips. You’re a good lad.” Burton set the table upright. “You locked Elsie in the cupboard, I take it?”

“To be sure. ‘Twas the only way to keep the young madam from wrecking the entire house. Phew! What a wildcat!”

Burton sighed. “Well, she can stay in there until she calms down. I’d ask what the devil got into her, but I suspect the answer would be Tichborne!”

“Aye, something of the sort. She was screaming incoherently, but from what I could make out, she seems to have acquired a bee in her bonnet about the suppression of the working classes.”

“Tichborne isn’t working class,” Swinburne mumbled.

“You’re right there, Mr. Swinburne! But the man who
says
he’s Sir Roger most certainly is, don’t you think?”

“It seems obvious,” said Burton, “but a surprising number of people don’t see it that way. If what I witnessed today is any indication, three-quarters of the population are supporting a man they know is a liar and charlatan. It’s utter lunacy!”

“Ah well, now I know you haven’t been affected,” Oscar responded. “To disagree with three-fourths of the British public is one of the first requisites of sanity!”

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Algernon Swinburne pulled his legs up onto the saddlebag armchair and crossed them. He accepted a cup of coffee—his second—from Admiral Lord Nelson, rested the saucer on his ankles, and gazed down into the liquid.

“Whatever that headache I had was, it’s been replaced by a different one. A hangover. Strange to say, that’s actually a relief!”

Herbert Spencer, sitting opposite, his eyes fixed on the clockwork valet, nodded distractedly, and took a sip from his own cup.

Burton, ever the observer, was standing by the window looking down at the street. He saw isolated instances of vandalism and misbehaviour but, in the main, the riot had bypassed Montagu Place, though distant shouts and crashes suggested that it was in full swing elsewhere.

“I daresay the food helped, Algy. It was good of Mrs. Angell to cook for us after her ordeal.”

“She’s everything her name suggests,” Swinburne responded. “I feel much happier now that my stomach is full.”

“Here’s something else to cheer you up. I meant to tell you earlier but it slipped my mind. There’s a second rotorchair in my garage. A gift to you from His Majesty.”

“My hat! A present from the king! How splendid!”

“Don’t get too excited. We’re going to have to be cautious about using the flying machines during this Tichborne business. Our opponent has already demonstrated an uncanny ability to deprive springs of their elasticity, thus disabling clocks, wind-up lanterns, and the hammer mechanisms of gun triggers. Since rotorchair engines employ spring pistons, I think we’ll stick with swans for the time being.”

“Blast! I have a new toy and I can’t play with it!”

“We may have to drop our ideas about John Speke, too. Whatever is going on, it seems less and less likely to me that he’s behind it.”

“Why so?”

“Because what began as the theft of diamonds has broadened into some sort of political agitation. That’s not John’s style at all. He’s far too selfish a man to care about such matters.”

“Then who? Edward Kenealy?”

Herbert Spencer interrupted: “No, lad. Back at the house, after you left, Kenealy was a-holdin’ séances to consult with Lady Mabella. If you ask me, the ghost is the one pullin’ the strings.”

Burton made a sound of agreement, but then the words
the puppeteer is herself a puppet
flashed through his mind.

“The odd thing is,” he said, “when Sir Alfred was being dragged through the house to his death, the apparition warned me not to interfere. I heard her voice clearly in my mind and it had a distinct accent. Russian, I’m positive.”

“Why is that odd?” asked Swinburne. “Aside from the obvious.”

“Because Lady Mabella Tichborne was from Hampshire.”

“Hamp—what? She was English?”

“Thoroughly. So whatever’s been haunting Tichborne House, it is
not
the ghost of the woman who crawled around the wheat fields. In fact, I doubt that it’s really a ghost at all.”

“It looked like one to me.”

“Then perhaps you can explain why it was rapping its knuckles on walls rather than floating straight through them?”

“You have an explanation?”

“I have never given credence to ghosts, but I’ve read much about what spiritualists term the projection of the ethereal or astral double. Occultists state that it is perfectly possible to pass through solid objects while in astral form, but it should not be done too often, as it can disrupt the connection between the ethereal and the physical bodies. My supposition is that we witnessed an individual in such a form, and they solidified their knuckles for the purpose of searching the house rather than risk being forever separated from their corporeal body.”

Swinburne jerked his limbs spasmodically—a sign of his growing excitement.

“So we’re dealing with a spiritualist, a table-tapper?”

“That’s my current theory, and one who appears to be using the Cambodian fragments and the South American Eye to somehow transmit and amplify mediumistic projections. I’m almost certain that support for the Claimant—who anyone in their right mind can see is a phony—is, through this method, being artificially generated to stir up the masses. What puzzles me is why the emanations influence some and not others. You are apparently rather sensitive to them, though more resistant when you’re drunk. Myself, Trounce, and Honesty feel them only faintly, while Herbert here is not touched at all.”

“From what I can see, the working classes are the most susceptible,” put in Swinburne. “Though I’d hardly place myself in that category. Whereas Herbert—”

“—is a bloomin’ philosopher,” the vagrant interjected. He tore his eyes away from the mechanical man and peered at the poet from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows, one of which was raised speculatively.

“Quite so. Quite so,” Swinburne conceded. “Forgive me for the observation, though, my dear chap, but you seem to be a singularly unsuccessful one. What exactly is your philosophy? Perhaps the nature of your thoughts bears some relation to your apparent immunity.”

“That’s an interesting hypothesis,” Burton said. He faced his two guests. “Talk to us, Herbert.”

“Hmmph!” Spencer grunted. “You’ll have to give me a minute or two to prepare meself. It don’t come easy to me, I’m afraid.”

“Go ahead. Take whatever time you need.”

The king’s agent and his assistant looked on in interest as the vagrant set his glass aside, propped his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepled his fingers in front of his face, closed his eyes, and laid his head back. He relaxed, and a remarkable tranquillity seemed to wash over him.

Swinburne looked at Burton, who whispered almost soundlessly: “Self-mesmerism!”

The clock on the mantelpiece clicked softly.

Distant shouts and crashes sounded from outside.

Two minutes passed.

Herbert Spencer sniffed, cleared his throat, and began to talk. Astonishingly, he was suddenly possessed of a finely spoken, urbane, and educated voice.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, without shifting position or opening his eyes, “let’s see if I can offer you a little food for thought. To illustrate the core of my philosophy, I would ask you to imagine that you are blindfolded and don’t know where you are. You stretch out your hands and walk slowly ahead until you encounter a wall. It may be a single wall blocking your way or it could be the side of a room. You don’t know. Your only certainty is that the wall is there. So what do you do? I haven’t a notion. What I
do
know is this: whatever your next action, it will be done in relation to the fact that you ran into that wall. Maybe you’ll climb over it. Maybe you’ll try to knock it down. Maybe you’ll build a house adjacent to it.”

Burton and Swinburne glanced at each other, amazed at their friend’s eloquence and perfect intonation; wondering where his words were leading.

“The question now is this: if you weren’t the only blindfolded person to have bumped into the wall—let’s say, for argument’s sake, that twenty others have done so, too—which of you is best able to make the most of your situation? I’m not referring to the strongest or most intelligent or most resourceful; what I mean to ask is, which of you happens to be in possession of the abilities and attitude that can best adapt to the circumstance of encountering a wall? Am I making sense?”

“Manifestly,” Swinburne replied. “When we first met, you used the phrase ‘survival of the fittest.’ You’re referring to that, yes?”

Spencer opened his eyes, which were oddly glazed, and jabbed a finger at the poet.

“Exactly! However, don’t mistake the ‘fittest’ for the healthiest or the cleverest or any other specific trait. I use it in the same sense that a square peg ‘fits’ into a square hole. The fittest man is the one most constitutionally suited to the conditions in which he finds himself. It’s a two-way relationship: the particular nature of the individual confronting the particular nature of reality. Or, I should say, what appears to be reality.”

“What
appears
to be?” Burton asked.

“That’s right, because it isn’t possible to know if the reality you perceive is all there is. You can only deal with what you are cognizant of.”

Burton frowned and nodded. “Knowledge is phenomenal? It pertains only to appearance—or in the case of your blindfolded individual, to the other material senses?”

Spencer resumed his closed-eyed, steeple-fingered position.

“Something like that, yes, though I don’t mean to suggest that it’s necessarily deceptive. We might only be aware of a small portion of reality, but it is reality nevertheless, so however we apprehend it, that apprehension has validity.

“Existence, then, is, I posit, a continuous adjustment of internal relations to external relations. Which brings us to the crux of the matter, for if our existence depended not upon such adjustments but rather upon quantifiable attributes such as strength, health, and endurance—and if reality were known in its entirety and measured, mapped, and gauged—then it would be easy to determine one individual’s chances of survival against another’s. The Eugenicists propose the improvement of the human race on just such a basis. They are in error. What they overlook is that, because one person’s reality isn’t necessarily the same as another’s, so the traits required to best prosper differ from person to person.”

Swinburne bounced in his chair excitedly. “I see! I see! A man who perceives a barrier needs the dexterity to climb over it, while the man who sees a foundation would benefit from the talent to design and erect a structure upon it.”

The philosopher nodded without reopening his eyes.

“Just so. These differing notions of life and how to best deal with it have caused the human race to tend toward greater heterogeneity. Individuals are becoming more specialised and differentiated as they each adapt to their own perception. To compensate for this diversification, we, as a species, have developed the ability to integrate almost everyone by creating an interdependent society.