The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man - By Mark Hodder Page 0,26

the cousins and assorted relatives, most of whom bore the surnames Doughty or Arundell - were not.

They didn't believe a word of it.

"He'll be over to assert ownership of the estate soon!" Oscar shouted, as the barrel organ screamed and belched.

Burton nodded thoughtfully, pulled a sixpence from his pocket, and pushed it into the urchin's palm.

"I'll see you later, Quips," he said. "Here's a coin for a pie. You can't live on sweets alone!"

"I can get plump trying! Thank you, Captain!"

Oscar disappeared into the shop, and Burton walked on, relieved to hear the organ music fading into the background.

On the corner of Baker Street, he waved down a hansom, which, pulled by a puffing steam-horse - like a smaller version of the famous Stevenson's Rocket - took him along Wigmore Street and halfway down Regent Street before jolting to a halt when its crankshaft snapped and punched a hole in the boiler. Dismissing the driver's apologies, he hailed another and continued on through Haymarket to Whitehall and Scotland Yard.

Mounting the steps of the forbidding old edifice, he was encountered going up by Detective Inspector Trounce, who happened to be on his way down.

"Well met!" the policeman declared.

"I was just coming to pick your brains," said Burton, shaking his friend's hand.

"I'm off to put the wind up Freddy Blue, the pawnbroker. Care to tag along?"

"Rightio. Why? What's he done?"

They descended the steps and set off toward Trafalgar Square.

"A little bird told me he's started to fence stolen property again."

"A parakeet?"

Trounce shook his head. "No, Cock Sparrow, the child pickpocket. What was it you wanted to jiggle my grey matter about?"

They skirted around the edge of the square and entered Northumberland Avenue, which was clogged with traffic as delivery wagons trundled up from riverside, heading into the centre of the capital.

"I was wondering what you might know about the Tichborne Claimant."

"Only what I've read in the papers."

"That's all? You mean Scotland Yard isn't looking into it?"

"Why should we? No charges have been brought against anyone. What's your interest, Captain?"

"To be frank, I haven't any. It's little more than newspaper sensationalism, as far as I can see. Pam, unfortunately, has other ideas."

"Palmerston? Why would it concern the prime minister?"

"Who knows? The man's brain is as unfathomable as one of those babbage devices."

Trounce made a sound of agreement. "Incidentally," he said, "you should have seen the men he sent to collect the babbage we found at the priory on the night of the Brundleweed raid. They were like a couple of blessed morticians!"

"Ah. That'll be Damien Burke and Gregory Hare. They're his odd-job men."

"Odd is right. I've never seen odder. And speaking of oddities, how's young Swinburne?"

"He's working on a new batch of poems. And pursuing his hobby, of course."

Trounce snorted. Both men knew that Swinburne's "hobby" involved frequent visits to brothels where he enjoyed being flogged by willing madams.

"He has strange tastes, that one," the detective muttered. "Why anyone would enjoy being birched, I can't imagine. I suffered the rod once or twice at school, and didn't like it one little bit!"

"The more I learn about him," Burton replied, "the more I believe Swinburne has a genuine physiological condition that causes him to feel pain as pleasure. He's a fascinating study!"

"And a thorough pervert. Though a damned courageous one, I'll give him that. Absolutely fearless! Here's Mr. Blue's shop. I'll do this alone, if you don't mind. Will you wait here?"

"Certainly. Don't pummel him too hard."

"A verbal dressing-down, that's all, Captain!" Trounce smiled. He cracked his knuckles and vanished into the pawnbroker's.

Sir Richard Francis Burton leaned on his cane and watched the traffic pass by. The traders' vehicles were mostly horse-drawn. There weren't many who could afford a steam-horse. The men on the carts were tough and wiry individuals. Their shirtsleeves were rolled up to their elbows and Burton could see the knotted muscles of their forearms, the thickness of their bones, and the leathery quality of their skin. There wasn't an ounce of fat on any of them, nor was there even a hint of pretension - nary a whiff of self-consciousness. They were stripped down to the basics of existence. They toiled, they ate, they slept, they toiled again, and they never imagined anything different. He admired them, and, in a strange way, he envied them.

A couple of minutes later, he heard a footstep behind him and turned.

Detective Inspector Trounce had emerged from the shop.

"He started blubbing like a baby before I'd said more than two words," the policeman announced. "I