The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats (35 page)

TOOLEY STREET CLOSURE
T
HE FULL EXTENT OF
T
OOLEY
S
TREET WILL BE
CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
S
T.
S
AVIOUR'S
D
ISTRICT
B
OARD OF
W
ORKS

The twelve occupants of hut 0 were special. One was a clockwork man that sat unmoving in a corner. Its only function appeared to be to monitor conversations and report anything of interest. The others, the Undesirables, were—unlike the other men in the camp, all of whom were middle class—either titled, rich, well-educated, influential, or a combination thereof. A chalkboard on the exterior wall of the shed, to the right of the door, listed them as:

085 Thomas Bendyshe

086 Doctor James Hunt

287 Richard Monckton Milnes

288 Sir Charles Bradlaugh

289 Count Marco Palladino

328 Captain Henry Murray

329 Sir Edward Brabrooke

641 Henry Spencer Ashbee

691 Doctor Bartholomew Quaint

722 Captain Frederick Hankey

854 Sir Roderick Murchison

It did not escape Burton's attention that all these men were associated with him in some manner or other.

Murray and Brabrooke had been interned the evening of his own arrival in the camp, so that now the entire Cannibal Club was in captivity with the exception of Swinburne. Over the course of the following three days, the others had arrived. Ashbee and Hankey, both writers, publishers, and eroticists, had provided Swinburne with an outlet for his most incendiary work. Quaint had been the medico and steward aboard the
Orpheus
during Burton's expedition to the source of the Nile. He was off duty when the rotorship disappeared and had no idea where it had gone. Murchison was the president of the Royal Geographical Society.

All were now dressed in ill-fitting and scratchy hessian uniforms with their numbers stitched onto their backs and sleeves.

Burton had been a prisoner for six full days and his disguise was becoming increasingly ragged around the edges. He'd avoided washing his face for fear the touches of makeup would disappear but it was, inevitably, rubbing off of its own accord. His false moustache was drooping. He frequently forgot to hold his jaw in a certain manner, allowing it, in repose, to slip into its normal position, which did much to expose his normal countenance. Monckton Milnes, he thought, was becoming suspicious. Burton often felt himself being surreptitiously scrutinised by his friend.

Day by day, the regime in the camp was becoming increasingly brutal. Every morning, at the ungodly hour of four, a siren blasted, and the men—the compound was by now extremely crowded—had to get up and tidy their shapeless straw mattresses and rough blankets to a military standard before standing to attention outside their huts for morning roll call. Newcomers used this occasion to express their indignation and anger. Those who'd been imprisoned for more than two days had already learned that such behaviour was inevitably met with a savage beating. There was nary a man in the camp who didn't bear the bruises of such treatment, which is why all but the most recently arrived remained sullen and silent except to answer “Aye!” when his number was called.

Next came the opportunity for morning ablutions. There were just two water spigots in the camp and, at the blast of a whistle, the prisoners had to run for them hoping to get a turn. Only a small percentage ever managed to wash.

The other facility consisted of wooden boards suspended over a ditch that ran downhill to join an exposed sewer pipe. The stench from this was dreadful and pervaded the entire enclosure.

At half past six, as the upper reaches of the fog took on a metallic-grey glow caused by the morning sun shining onto it, a second siren blasted, signalling that the men should line up again outside their huts, this time with their mess tins and cups in their hands. A small number of prisoners, selected for the duty, passed along the lines distributing weak and gritty coffee, coarse bread, and a slop of cold porridge.

After this meagre breakfast, most were free to move about the camp as they wished. Not so the inhabitants of hut 0, who—with their mute and motionless guard—were confined to their quarters.

Lunch—bland soup and watery tea—followed the same routine as breakfast. In the afternoons, the huge rotorship, which Burton now knew to be HMA
Eurypyle
, arrived, announcing its approach with a deep, teeth-rattling bellow. Men were herded aboard it to be transported to no one knew where. Others entered the camp to replace them.

Evening roll call came at seven o'clock and was followed by a dinner of gristle-filled mutton stew and a second cup of tea.

“It's inhuman!” Sir Roderick protested for the umpteenth time.

It was the morning of Burton's seventh day of captivity. He'd just finished breakfast but was still hungry. He and the others were sitting on their bunks, most slumped forward, arms resting on legs, heads hanging. The explorer was listening for the faint, almost inaudible tapping that had sounded at the base of the door every morning thus far. He knew it was Pox, sent with a message from Swinburne, Trounce, or Gooch. The bird couldn't get in, wouldn't deliver its communiqué without seeing Burton, and every day flew away undoubtedly to report the message undelivered. That was as much as its capabilities allowed. It couldn't tell his friends where he was or anything about his circumstances.

Burton hoped fervently that the bird wouldn't one day arrive during roll call or one of the meals. If it was seen, it would be killed, he was sure.

“I'm president of the RGS,” Murchison continued. “I serve on the Royal Commission for the British Museum. I'm director-general of the British Geological Survey and director of the Royal School of Mines and the Museum of Practical Geology. I have it on good authority that I'm to be made a baronet. By God, I have more letters after my name than I have in it!”

“Oh, give it a rest, why don't you?” Tom Bendyshe groaned. “We've heard it all before. We're all in the same boat, old fellow. None of us has done anything to warrant our confinement.”

“Pornographer!” Murchison spat.

“Let's not start on each other,” Monckton Milnes muttered. “Has anyone given Laughing Boy's key a spin?”

Laughing Boy was the name they'd given their clockwork cohabitant. The device had, every day bar yesterday, spoken just once, on each occasion after morning roll call, and each time to utter exactly the same words: “You are ordered to wind me up to full capacity. Failure to do so will be reported and will result in severe punishment.”

Yesterday Doctor Quaint had forestalled the threat by winding the mechanism's spring the moment they'd returned to their hut after the morning routine. He now did so again.

Burton wondered whether it would be worth the subsequent punishment to allow the guard to wind down just so they'd have a few minutes to plan their escape without being overheard. He knew other captives had made attempts. Under cover of the still-dense fog, they'd attempted to scale the fence, but had been caught in the act and summarily executed in front of the other prisoners. Now, guard towers were being built. If Burton and his companions were going to make a move, it would have to be very soon.

Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

There it was. Pox.

Burton wanted to rush to the door and shout through it,
Message for Swinburne. I am held prisoner in Green Park!

But, as always, Laughing Boy was watching and listening.

The tapping continued for a couple of minutes then stopped.

Five minutes after that, their guard suddenly spoke.

“Attention! Stand by your bunks. Inspection.”

“Bloody hell!” Bendyshe moaned. “Not again.”

“First time we've been warned, though,” Ashbee noted. “Let's not give Kidd any excuses. Is everything ship-shape?”

The men stood and quickly smoothed their blankets and put their mess tins out of site. They stood, backs straight, shoulders squared, stomachs hollow, hearts hammering, knowing that the next half hour or so would be exceedingly unpleasant.

Kidd had done it every day; summary inspections conducted with cold politeness and, inevitably, concluding with punishments for transgressions as trivial as a creased pillow, a breadcrumb found on the floor, or a uniform button left undone. The penalties ranged from a confiscated blanket to a missed meal, from an enforced run of multiple laps around the compound to an unrestrained horsewhipping. Henry Ashbee still bore the marks of the latter upon his back.

The door lock clicked and the portal banged open. Two green-painted clockwork men entered and positioned themselves to either side. Commander Kidd strode in. He, too, stood aside. An SPG unit followed and, behind it, dressed in a black uniform, wearing black leather gloves and with a swagger stick in his right hand, came Colonel Christopher Palmer Rigby.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, removing his left glove. He paced up and down the middle of the room, pausing in front of each man. “Sir Roderick, I trust you are enjoying this break from your various duties. Captain Murray, you appear a little gaunt. Are you not eating? Mr. Ashbee, hello, and Mr. Hankey, good day to you, sir. I regret that I must inform you both that your printing presses have been confiscated and your publications destroyed. Ah, Doctor Quaint! Separated from your shipmates, hey? And Mr. Bendyshe, are you—”

“Go to hell!” Bendyshe snapped.

A momentary silence. Rigby smiled. He jerked his right arm up and sliced his swagger stick across Bendyshe's face, leaving behind a livid welt.

“I didn't order you to speak, sir. Commander Kidd, have this man taken outside and taught some manners. Don't break any bones.”

Kidd nodded and waved his two guards forward. The clockwork men pounced on Bendyshe and hauled him, kicking and yelling, out of the hut. Kidd followed. Monckton Milnes made to move after him but Burton hissed, “Don't.”

“Where was I?” Rigby said pleasantly. “Ah yes, Sir Charles Bradlaugh, Sir Edward Brabrooke, and Doctor Hunt, greetings to you all. Mr. Monckton Milnes, it is good to see you again. We met once at one of Lady Pauline Trevelyan's little gatherings. You probably don't recall the occasion. I rather think I was invited by mistake. Not my kind of people, if you understand my meaning. Far too—what shall we say?—
artistic
?”

He stopped in front of Burton and stared into his eyes.

“And you must be Count Palladino, the man who did the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong place, eh? I have something that belongs to you, sir.”

Rigby stretched his left arm out sideways. The SPG unit strode forward and proffered an item around which Rigby's fingers closed.

“Your cane. Confiscated from you. I rather expect you'd like it returned. It's certainly an unusual piece. Unique handle. A panther's head. Fine craftsmanship. It impressed me to such a degree that I was moved to do a little research. Do you know what I found? That only one such cane was ever made. It was commissioned by the late Laurence Oliphant, Lord Elgin's former secretary, and stolen from him when he was murdered—by a man, I might add, who has since been declared an enemy of the empire. I refer to Sir Richard Francis Burton. Are you acquainted with him? Did he make a gift of it to you, perhaps? You have my permission to speak.”

“Freely?” Burton asked.

“Why, of course.”

“Then I shall say that you're a cad of the first order, Rigby. Were you to submit yourself for examination by Doctor Monroe at the Bethlem Lunatic Asylum, I'm certain he'd declare you a homicidal maniac. Your brain is marred by a criminal aberration. I saw it twenty years ago in India, I saw it again two years ago in Zanzibar, and it appears to have become even more severe in its effects in the time since. You cannot reason like a normal man. Disraeli—who has apparently also lost his mind—did well in hiring you to do his dirty work, for you are utterly lacking in the finer sentiments and are more akin to a rabid beast than to a rational person. I shall have to deal with you as I would such an unfortunate creature. I will have no option but to hold you down and put a bullet through your diseased head.”

Rigby, whose face had purpled, stood silently with his eyes blazing and his thin lips white.

Burton sensed that his fellow prisoners were holding their breaths. He slowly raised a hand, gripped his false moustache and tore it from his face. With the sleeve of his shirt, he smeared away the make up around his eyes and cheeks.

He heard Monckton Milnes, to his right, expel a small sigh. No doubt, he was thinking,
I should have bloody well known!

What felt like two minutes passed in absolute silence.

Rigby threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“Oh!” he shouted. “Oh! What marvellous games we play!”

He called for Kidd. The commander stepped in and was told, “Get that other one back in here. I assume he's had enough by now?”

Commander Kidd grinned. “The clockwork men are fast and efficient.” He leaned out and beckoned to his mechanical subordinates.

“Burton,” Rigby said, turning back to the explorer. “If you want to completely ruin my morning, you'll reveal to me now where I can find Algernon Swinburne, Detective Inspector Trounce, and Daniel Gooch. Tell me where your brother is and where Lawless has taken the
Orpheus
. Furnish me with those items of information, and I shall be obliged to leave here immediately to round them up. Stay silent, and I'll remain, which is what I'd much prefer.”

Burton didn't respond.

Rigby clicked his heels and gave a little bow. “Thank you. Thank you very much indeed.”

The two clockwork men dragged Bendyshe in. His uniform was ragged and stained with blood. His face was a mess, the eyes swollen to slits, the lips puffed up and split, the nose dribbling gore.