The Curious Case Of The Clockwork Man (30 page)

“If we allow the Eugenicists to alter the race according to their infinitesimally narrow criteria, I think it almost certain that this interdependence will collapse and extinction will follow.”

With eyes fixed on the vagrant philosopher, Burton moved to his saddleback armchair and sat down. “While I find myself in agreement with your notion of interdependent diversity,” he said, thoughtfully, “do you not think that it is overwhelmed by a rather more dominant division? I speak of that which we’ve seen demonstrated today—to wit, the segregation of society into the working and the educated classes.”

“Ah, Captain Burton, you have hit the nail on the head. The Eugenicists may be wrong in their approach, but they are correct in their assessment that our society, in its present divided form, must either change or die. It is what prompted me to bring Darwin’s theory into the picture.”

“How so, Herbert?”

“You see, when the mechanism of natural selection is transposed from the biological to the social arena, we can immediately see that our interdependence has become so extreme that evolution cannot possibly occur. Individuals have become
too
specialised. Consider our prehistoric ancestor. He knew how to create a fire, make a weapon, hunt an animal, fashion clothes and a shelter from its skin, cook it and eat the flesh, carve tools from its bones, and so much more. What man of the nineteenth century can do all those things? None! Instead we have engineers and weapon-smiths and tailors and cooks and craftsmen and builders—each excellent in his own field, each entirely helpless in the others!”

Spencer opened his eyes again and turned them toward Admiral Lord Nelson, who was standing in his usual position by the bureau.

“The idea that the Empire is progressive is an insidious myth. A myth! Look at that brass man! It is our tools that are evolving, not us! If anything, we are going in the opposite direction. While an increasingly exclusive elite are gathering information about ways in which the world might function, the ever-expanding majority are becoming ever more proficient in a single field of endeavour while comprehending less and less about anything else.”

Swinburne paraphrased something Burton had said on the evening of the Brundleweed robbery: “The acquisition of knowledge has become too intimidating a prospect for them, so they shun it in favour of faith.”

“Sadly so,” said Spencer. “There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments, and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance—that principle is contempt prior to investigation; contempt carved from the immovable rock of faith.

“Thus it is, gentlemen, that the masses are not only kept from the knowledge that would aid their ability to adapt and evolve, but they also actively reject it. Minds have become trammelled by ingrained social conditions. Working-class parents instill in their children the concept that reality offers nothing but hardship, that poverty always beckons, and that small rewards can be achieved only through strife and labour. Why should they teach differently when, under those same conditions, they themselves have survived? The child takes this as the unquestionable truth of the world. Opportunities are not recognised. The desire for change remains within the realm of dreams. Adaptability is devalued. Evolution is halted.”

Spencer’s face suddenly dropped into an expression of abject misery.

“I’m runnin’ out o’ steam,” he said. “Me bloomin’ brain can’t cope with it!”

His arms suddenly dropped and dangled over the sides of his chair, his head nodded forward, and he emitted a loud snore.

“Good lord!” Swinburne exclaimed.

“Asleep,” Burton noted. “What an extraordinary man!”

“I say, Richard, what do you make of all that?”

Burton reached for his cigar case. “I think this warrants a two-Manila muse, Algy. Sit quietly, would you, while I give it a ponder.”

Sitting quietly didn’t come naturally to the diminutive poet but he gritted his teeth and managed to remain silent for ten minutes while Spencer snored and Burton smoked.

“Fascinating!” Burton said, speaking at last.

Herbert Spencer snorted and looked up. “Hallo, Boss! Did I take forty winks?”

“You did, Herbert. Does that always happen after you philosophise?”

“Yus. It exhausts me bloomin’ brain. How did I do? I hope I didn’t humiliate meself.”

“Humiliate?” Swinburne cried. “Good lord, no, Herbert! You did splendidly! You are absolutely remarkable!”

Burton blew out a plume of tobacco smoke and said, “Forgive the question, Herbert—I mean no offence—but why on earth aren’t you a sensation? With an intellect like yours, you should be writing books and touring universities!”

Spencer shrugged and tapped the side of his head. “When a man’s knowledge ain’t in order, the more of it he has, the greater is his confusion.” He looked at Admiral Lord Nelson and sighed. “I should be more like him! There’s one what’s got an ordered mind!”

“But no knowledge, Herbert,” Burton said. “No knowledge at all. So do you mean to say that your thinking processes are more usually in disarray?”

“Yus, just that. When I sits down an’ talks, it’s all fine, but for most o’ the time, me brainbox is a right old jumble.”

“Hmm. I wonder if that has some bearing on your immunity to the Tichborne influence?”

“Richard, that doesn’t make sense,” Swinburne objected. “In the main, it’s the working classes who’ve come out in support of the Claimant, which suggests they’re most affected by whatever this emanation is. If a disordered mind is immune, then the working classes have ordered minds and most of London’s gentry, including yourself, don’t!”

“No, Algy, that’s not it at all. Let me pose a question: what would you be if you weren’t a poet?”

“Dead.”

“Seriously.”

“I
am
serious. There’s nothing else I could be. I was born a poet. I think like a poet. I act like a poet. I look like a poet. I’m a poet.”

“Accepted. By contrast, Herbert here, when we first met him, made it quite clear that he wasn’t at all sure that he was cut out to be a philosopher.”

“It’s no way to earn a livin’, that’s for certain,” Spencer muttered.

“As for me,” Burton continued, “I’ve never possessed a clear idea of my function in society. I’ve been a soldier, a spy, a geographer, an interpreter, an explorer, an author, a surveyor, and now the king’s agent, whatever the blazes that is. As for this country’s gentry, I think you’ll find that they mostly have a sense that life is filled with options; that, in terms of what they actually do with their time, there are few limitations.”

“Herbert used the word ‘trammelled.’ Are you suggesting that the trammelled mind is the susceptible mind?”

“Precisely.”

“Funny. I’ve never considered myself trammelled. Quite the opposite, in fact!”

“It’s not that your mind or imagination is in any respect confined, Algy. It’s simply that you’ve never given consideration to the notion of doing anything else. You even offered your services as my assistant because you felt the danger involved would cure your ennui and inspire greater depth in your poetry.”

“Which it has. You suspect, then, that the black diamonds somehow break down the mental structures that keep a mind channelled, which is why the working classes are suddenly feeling hard done by—they’re realising that they’re being cheated out of alternatives?”

“Yes. Remember the line in the poem?
Vexations in the poor enables.
And what about Edwin Brundleweed’s story of how, the afternoon before the robbery, he suddenly and inexplicably felt dissatisfied with his lot in life?”

“But what’s it all about, Richard? What’s the point?”

“Judging by today’s events, I’d say the point is chaos; maybe even insurgency—an assault against the very fabric of our society. I would even go so far as to say that the British Empire is under attack.”

“My hat! By a foreign power?”

“Or a budding despot. You understand now why John Speke can probably be discounted?”

Swinburne nodded. “Unless it’s the Prussians. You did say he’d gone to Prussia. On the other hand, our ghost is Russian.”

Burton asked Admiral Lord Nelson to top up their cups from the coffee pot and they sat in silence for a few moments.

“Are we on the brink of a revolution?” Swinburne whispered. “Think of it! A reign of terror could descend on us just as it did on France. We might end up under the rule of an abominable tyrant like Napoleon!”

“Or we might not,” Spencer muttered. “Would it be so bad if the workin’ man—an’ woman, I might add—gained some measure of power? Don’t you think it’s becomin’ a matter of urgency that they do?”

“Maybe so,” Burton replied, thinking of Countess Sabina and his subsequent dream:
a transition begins—a melting of one great cycle into another.
“But do we really want such a change to be forced upon us by an external power? I find it inconceivable that they might be doing it for our own good!”

He flicked the stub of his cheroot into the fireplace, stood, and paced back across to the window.

“We must get to the root of this.”

His eyes scanned the road below. Two labourers were trailing along behind a gentleman, mocking him relentlessly. Despite this scene, Montagu Place was unusually quiet for the hour.

“In order to strengthen our campaign against the enemy, Algy, we must first strengthen ourselves. I’ve resisted it in the past, but I think it’s time I mesmerised you.”

“Really?”

“Really. I want to see whether I can stop you becoming a Tichborne supporter every time the Claimant is nearby. If I can’t, the only other option is for you to stay permanently drunk, and I’d rather avoid that.”

Swinburne puffed out his cheeks and expelled a breath with a pop. “Oh, it wouldn’t be so bad! Besides, you’ve always refused to exercise your mental magnetism on me before!”

“True,” Burton affirmed. “I was concerned that your excitable disposition might react in an unpredictable manner. However, seeing as this affair is making you unpredictable anyway, my former caution seems somewhat misplaced. I shall employ a Sufi technique to fortify my own psychic defences, too. Then I have a task for you.”

“Good! What?”

“The Rake connection interests me. We’ve yet to identify their new leader. I want you to dig around—but keep out of mischief.”

“I’ll talk to my Libertine chums. I say, though—Rakes and Tichborne—it seems a contradiction, doesn’t it? If our mysterious opponent is attempting to stir up the working classes, why employ Rakes, who epitomise the idea of the insouciant aristo?”

“My thought exactly!”

Swinburne suddenly froze and looked at his friend with a puzzled expression.

“That wraith,” he said. “The one by the chaunter. You saw it?”

“Clearly!”

“For a moment, it seemed to manifest rather more solidly and took on the appearance of a tall bearded man. I swear he was wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, too. The thing of it is, I feel I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

“You recognised the manifestation as an actual person?”

“Yes. That wisp of steam resembled someone whose path I’ve crossed at some point, I’m sure of it, but for the life of me I can’t recall whom. The name ‘Boyle’ or ‘Foyle’ springs to mind.”

“Keep thinking on it, Algy—it could be important.”

Spencer rubbed a hand over his bald scalp and said, “Is there anythin’ I can do to help, Boss?”

“Thank you, Herbert, there is. Your immunity and your—if you don’t mind me saying so—disreputable appearance, enable you to wander through the thick of it without being molested. I’d like you to keep an eye on things at street level, see how widespread the apparitions are, and, if possible, find out where they’re most numerous.”

“Right you are!”

“First, though, I’d like you to return to Miss Mayson’s to make a purchase on my behalf.”

He explained further and supplied the philosopher with the requisite amount of money.

Swinburne piped up: “It’s a quarter to eight, Richard. What say you we toddle on over to the Cannibal Club for a natter with Monckton Milnes? He usually has a better handle on what the Rakes are up to than I do. You can mesmerise me afterward.”

“An excellent idea. We’ll take the penny-farthings. I don’t fancy walking the streets at night, not while the rank and file are up in arms.”

Half an hour later, Herbert Spencer descended the steps of 14 Montagu Place and headed off toward
SPARTA
on Orange Street.

Meanwhile, Burton and Swinburne left the study and went down the stairs to Mrs. Angell’s domain. While Swinburne waited by the back door, Burton tapped lightly on the entrance to the old lady’s parlour. A voice called from within. He poked his head into the room beyond.

“I thought I’d check to see how you are,” he said. “I hope you didn’t tire yourself cooking for us. It was very kind of you to do so.”

“I’m fine, Sir Richard. No need to worry. A bruised hip, nothing more. How’s little Elsie?”

“Doctor Steinhaueser gave her a sedative. She’s asleep in the guest room and certainly won’t wake up before morning. I sent a message to her parents and they’ll come to pick her up soon. You needn’t do anything more this evening. Just rest, my dear, and if you want anything, ring for Admiral Lord Nelson.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Burton returned to Swinburne and they went out to the garage. A few moments later they steered their penny-farthings into Wyndham Mews and set off toward Leicester Square.

The evening sky was clear, a dark and deepening blue, with three or four stars already twinkling. It was warm. A slight, directionless breeze stirred the air lazily.

At ground level, ribbons of steam twisted slowly across the surface of the road, occasionally rising up like serpents poised to strike. They swirled away from passing traffic then curled back inward.

There were far fewer vehicles on the streets than usual.

“Where is everyone?” Swinburne called over the racket of his penny-farthing’s chugging engine.

“Sheltering behind locked doors, I imagine,” Burton responded. “Or resting after a hard day’s rioting!”