The Curious Case Of The Clockwork Man (25 page)

The prime minister ordered the construction of twelve shallow-draught ironclad steam battleships, designed specifically to operate in American coastal waters. Six new dreadnought-class rotorships were also built, all with bomb bays.

On the 4th of July 1862, Palmerston made two declarations. The first stated that Great Britain was now at war with Lincoln’s Union. The second promised that any Irishman who agreed to join the British army would receive free transportation for his entire family to one of the Confederate States, plus two hundred pounds with which to purchase a home and start a new life.

In one fell swoop, he solved the immigration problem, relocated a homeless nation, and created one of the strongest and most willing armies the world had ever seen.

Even Napoleon
III
and Bismarck, both of whom had been threatening British interests in Europe, reluctantly admitted that the prime minister was a genius, an arch manipulator, and a man they’d rather not cross.

Abraham Lincoln sent a lengthy letter of protest, which contained the sentence:
If you are against the Union, you support slavery.

Palmerston made history with his terse, five-word reply:
To hell with you, sir!

Sir Richard Francis Burton hated slavery with a passion. He’d seen with his own eyes the wholesale destruction, humiliation, and misery it wrought—had seen the deep wounds that scarred Africa. It prompted him to now ask: “What of the slave trade, Prime Minister?”

Palmerston’s right eyelid twitched. He drummed his long manicured fingernails on the mahogany desktop.

“I didn’t call you here to examine my policies.”

“Nor am I doing so. I’m merely curious to know whether there
is
a policy in this regard.”

“I’ll not have your impudence!”

“You misunderstand me. There is no challenge or disapproval in my words. I’m aware that Lincoln’s Crittenden-Johnson Resolution states that his army is fighting to preserve the Union and not to end slavery. I am also aware that the Confederates mean to continue that filthy trade. So where do you stand?”

Palmerston slapped his hand down and shouted: “Damn you, man! How dare you question me?”

Very quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, Burton replied: “When I was in Arabia back in ‘53, I could have purchased a little black boy or girl for just one thousand piastres. I could have bought a eunuch for double that sum. Girls from the Galla country cost considerably more due to the fact that their skin remains cool in the hottest weather and is silky to the touch. Female slaves have their genitals mutilated before they are sold to prevent any possibility that they might enjoy sexual union. The theory is that it prevents them from straying. The wounds—”

“Stop! Stop! Your point is made!” Palmerston interrupted. “Very well, I’ll tell you. When the Confederates win the war, they’ll be in Britain’s debt. I’ll demand abolition as repayment.”

“And if they refuse?”

“I’ll block their trade routes.”

“It’s a big country.”

“They may have a big country, sir, but I have a bigger Empire, and if they show one iota of ingratitude, I’ll not hesitate to incorporate the old colonies back into it!”

Burton’s eyes widened. “Good lord!”

“Empires require resources, Burton, which is why the whole of Europe is scrambling for Africa. With that accursed continent proving so damned intractable, perhaps the Americas are a better option. Much of them were ours in the past. All of them can be ours in the future.”

“Surely you’re not serious?”

Palmerston’s mouth stretched even wider. “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you that imagination is required in a politician?”

“But how could you possibly justify—”

“Justify? Justify? Justify to whom, sir?”

“To the electorate.”

Palmerston threw his head back and made a crackling noise that may have been laughter.

“They already elected me, Burton. While I occupy this seat, I’ll do what I think is best, whether they like it or not.”

Burton shook his head in amazement. “You politicians are a breed apart.”

Palmerston pulled a silver snuff tin from his waistcoat pocket and clicked open its lid. He placed a pinch of powder on the back of his right hand, raised it to his nose, and sniffed.

“Stanley’s eight rotorchairs have turned up.”

Burton blinked at the sudden change of subject then sat bolt upright.

“Where?”

“They were found near the village of Ntobe, to the southwest of Speke’s Lake Albert—”

“The Ukerewe Nyanza,” Burton corrected.

“Call it what you will. An Arab trader discovered them. He—excuse me—” Palmerston turned his head and let loose a prodigious sneeze. He looked back at Burton with his left eye. The right had slipped out of alignment and was directed at the ceiling. “—he brought word back to Christopher Rigby, the consul at Zanzibar.”

“And what of Stanley?”

“No sign. Have you caught up with the newspapers?”

“No. I returned yesterday. The only thing I’ve been catching up with is lost sleep.”

“The
Times
, the
Globe
, and the
Empire
are calling for another expedition. A rescue mission. They all agree that there’s only one man qualified to lead it.”

“Who?”

“Sir Richard Francis Burton.”

Burton’s jaw clenched. He cleared his throat and said: “I’ll start to make arrangements for—”

“You can’t. You’re busy.”

“But, surely I—”

“I forbid it. You’re under commission to the king. Your services are required here. I’ve spoken to Sir Roderick Murchison and, on his recommendation, the government will offer financial backing to the Baker and Petherick expedition.”

Burton glowered ferociously and remained silent.

“Incidentally,” Palmerston said, ignoring the explorer’s expression, “on the subject of rotorchairs, His Majesty has ordered that a second be delivered to you. It’s for Mr. Swinburne. Our monarch was most impressed with the young poet’s contribution to your solving of the Spring Heeled Jack mystery.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll receive it some time this week.”

The politician reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a sheaf of documents. With a slight air of embarrassment, he clipped pince-nez spectacles to the bridge of his nose. Behind their smoked-blue lenses, his right eye slid back into place. He peered down at the papers.

“Your dreadful penmanship seems to have improved remarkably,” he noted. “I can actually read these reports.”

“I’ve been using a writing machine.”

“Really? I didn’t know such a thing existed. Well now, you’ve been busy this summer, haven’t you? These accounts are remarkable:
The Case of the Tottenham Court Road Vampire
;
The Men Who Jumped; The Secret of the Benevolent Sisters; The Problem of the Polite Parakeet.
You’re earning your keep, though I rue your tendency to hang such lurid titles on your reports. These are government files, sir, not penny dreadfuls. That aside, I’m much satisfied.”

He peered over the top of his lenses.

“But what of the Tichborne matter? Why am I still reading about it in my morning newspapers? Why have you spent the past three weeks overseas?”

Burton fished a cheroot from his jacket pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke, sir?”

“Yes, I do.”

The king’s agent looked at the Manila wistfully as he considered the Tichborne case. Since April, though working on other assignments, he and Swinburne had contrived to follow Kenealy and the Claimant. Now, at the tail end of September, events appeared to be building a new head of steam.

Steam! By God! He would forever associate the Tichborne case with steam! The entire season, London had been akin to a Turkish bath, enveloped in hot white vapour, quite unlike the usual “London particular” fogs.

It wasn’t just the unusually hot weather causing the problem; it was also the frenzy of creativity that had gripped the Technologists. Their Eugenicists had simplified and perfected the process of breeding giant insects, and the Engineers were experimenting with species after species. In May, Isambard Kingdom Brunel had declared himself alive, much to the joy and astonishment of the British public. In his bell-like voice he’d announced: “Though I continue to be confined to this life-maintaining contraption, I have decided to end my seclusion in order to pursue a number of engineering projects. Thanks to the work of my Eugenicist colleagues, a wholly new method of transportation has become possible, and I can confidently predict that the wheel will soon be a thing of the past!”

By July, the number of steam-driven insects on the capital’s roads had increased so dramatically that few could disagree with his claim. The city was literally swarming with scuttling, crawling, hopping, and buzzing vehicles, and, just as Detective Inspector Trounce had feared, the consequence was total chaos.

Amid all this, the Tichborne affair dragged on, and even with the capital in crisis and the country at war, it managed to make headlines on a weekly basis.

Burton had, for the time being, kept quiet about the François Garnier Choir Stones, not even telling Detective Inspector Trounce that they were embedded in the Claimant’s head. Better to find out
why
they were there than to have the lumbering creature arrested for their possession and never discover what their opponent was up to. So the king’s agent maintained his distance and watched as Dr. Edward Kenealy instigated legal action to recover Sir Roger’s property.

Midway through May, there arrived at 14 Montagu Place a communiqué from Herbert Spencer, who was still below stairs at Tichborne House. It was delivered by a small blue and yellow parakeet, which landed on the study windowsill and tapped at the glass.

Burton had pulled up the sash and exclaimed: “By James! Surely it’s Pox?”

“Shut your trap!” came the squawked response, then: “Message from the beautiful and magnificent Herbert Spencer. The Claimant, Kenealy, Jankyn, Bogle, and moronic Lord Lushington are holdin’ weekly séances in the bloody billiard room. They’ve been summonin’ the ghost of Lady Mabella. I haven’t been able to overhear their conversations with her. Message bleeding well ends.”

“Well now, I wonder what they’re up to?” Burton muttered. “And why is Lushington playing along with them?”

“Stinky twisted bum-face!”
POX
JR5 responded.

“Message for Herbert Spencer,” Burton said. “Get out of there. Take the swans home. Message ends.”

Pox gave a whistle and flew away.

By early summer, the Tichborne case was such a cause célèbre that legal processes were hastened to bring it to trial as soon as possible. The Claimant was the plaintiff, of course, but, in truth, few people regarded him as such—he was going to have to prove that he was the man he represented himself to be.

The trial had opened in May.

Kenealy began by reviewing Sir Roger Tichborne’s youth, which, he claimed, was a thoroughly unhappy affair. James Tichborne, he alleged, was an alcoholic and violent father, while the boy’s domineering mother was smothering in the extreme.

Roger had been driven into the company of gamblers and reprobates, and this had eroded his aristocratic nature. It was then further weakened by the terrible ordeal he’d suffered during the many days adrift in a longboat after the sinking of
La Bella.

“Undoubtedly,” said Kenealy, “long exposure to the unremitting sun affected the young man’s brain.”

Rescued, Roger Tichborne was landed at Melbourne and wandered aimlessly through New South Wales until he eventually settled in the little town of Wagga Wagga. He lived there as Tomas Castro, a name borrowed from a man he’d known in South America, and worked as a humble butcher until the day he opened a newspaper and saw Lady Henriette-Felicité’s plea for information.

After the reading of the affidavits, witnesses for the Claimant had been paraded before the court. They included Anthony Wright Biddulph, one of Sir Roger’s distant cousins, who’d mumbled his way through an incoherent statement of support; Lord Rivers, a Rakish aristocrat who’d refused to reveal why he was providing money to the Claimant; and Guildford Onslow, a Liberal member of parliament who was very obviously working his own agenda. A great commotion had then erupted when Colonel Lushington declared himself a firm supporter of “Sir Roger,” even though it was he himself against whom the legal case had been brought.

Next, a number of Carabineers, who’d served with Tichborne, had come forward, as had residents from the estate, servants, a tailor, Sir Edward Doughty’s former coachman, and, unsurprisingly—at least to Burton—Doctor Jankyn.

When the latter took the stand, he made a point of mentioning that while in the army Roger Tichborne had been tattooed on his left arm by a fellow soldier. The Claimant was asked to remove his jacket and roll up his shirtsleeve. He did so. His left forearm, quite unlike its opposite, was white and slender. On its inner surface, there was tattooed a heart overlaid with an anchor. About four inches above it, a line of rough stitches encircled the arm. The flesh on the other side of it was dark, coarse, and bulged corpulently.

In mid-June, Edward Kenealy sat down, Henry Hawkins stood up, and the cross-examination commenced.

Swinburne, in the gallery with Burton, made the observation that Sir Roger seemed to have grown even fatter.

“Sir Roger?” Burton asked.

Swinburne massaged his temples, winced, and mumbled: “Why do I keep saying that? I meant the Claimant, of course.”

The court clerk said: “State your name, please.”

“Sir Roger—Charles—Doughty Tichborne,” came the drawling reply. Hawkins tested the Claimant’s education, his knowledge of the Tichborne family, and his familiarity with Roger Tichborne’s history. To anyone with a modicum of intelligence, the replies were wholly unsatisfactory, yet somehow, opinions of the Claimant’s performance differed in the extreme.

One journalist wrote:

In all the fifteen years I have spent reporting court dramas, I have never witnessed such a shambolic performance as that offered by the Tichborne Claimant. That anyone can doubt he is anything other than an audacious confidence trickster fair boggles this writer’s mind.