The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man - By Mark Hodder Page 0,6

turned his umbrella inside out.

Swinburne gave his friend a sideways glance. "Do you mean physically return to Africa or go back in time? What on earth's got into you? You've been like a bear with a sore head lately."

Burton pursed his lips, thrust his cane into the crook of his elbow, and pushed his hands into his pockets.

"Montague Penniforth."

"Who?"

"He was a cab driver - a salt-of-the-earth type. He knew his position in society, and despite it being tough and the rewards slight, he just got on with it, uncomplainingly."

"So?"

"So I dragged him out of his world and into mine. He got killed, and it was my fault." Burton looked at his companion, his eyes hard and his expression grim. "William Stroyan, 1854, Berbera. I underestimated the natives. I didn't think they'd attack our camp. They did. He was killed. John Hanning Speke. Last year, he shot himself in the head rather than confront me in a debate. Now half his brain is a machine and his thoughts aren't his own. Edward Oxford - "

"The man who leaped here from the future."

"Yes. And who accidentally changed the past. He was trying to put it right, and I killed him."

"He was Spring Heeled Jack. He was insane."

"My motives were selfish. He revealed to me where my life was going. I broke his neck to prevent any chance that he might succeed in his mission. I didn't want to be the man that his history recorded."

They trudged on through the sodden rubbish and animal waste. Unusually, this end of Saint Martin's Lane hadn't yet been visited by a litter-crab.

"If he'd lived, Richard," Swinburne said, "the Technologists and Rakes would have used him to manipulate time for their own ends. We would have lost control of our destinies."

"Does not Destiny, by its very nature, deny us control?" Burton countered.

Swinburne smiled. "Does it? Then if that's the case, responsibility for Mr. Penniforth's death - and the other misfortunes you mentioned - must rest with Destiny, not with you."

"Which would make me its tool. Bismillah! That's just what I need!"

Burton stopped and indicated a shopfront. "Here's Pride-Manushi, the velocipede place."

They examined the doors and windows of the establishment. No lights showed. Everything was secure. They squinted through the gaps in the metal shutter. There was no movement, nothing amiss.

"Brundleweed's next," Burton murmured.

"Gad! I don't blame you for wishing you were back on the Dark Continent!" Swinburne declared, pulling at his overcoat collar. "At least it's warm there. A thousand curses on this rain!"

They crossed the road again. As they mounted the pavement, a beggar stepped out of a shadowy doorway. He was ill kempt and wore disreputable clothes. A profusion of greying hair framed his face, and it was quite apparent that he was well acquainted with neither a comb nor a bar of soap.

"I lost me job, gents," he wheezed, raising his flat cap in greeting and revealing a bald scalp. "An' it serves me bloomin' well right, too. I ask you, why the heck did I choose to be a bleedin' philosopher when me mind's nearly always muddled? Can you spare thruppence?"

Swinburne fished a coin out of his pocket and flipped it to the vagrant. "Here you are, old chap. You were a philosopher?"

"Much obliged. Aye, I was, lad. An' here's a bit of advice in return for your coin: life is all about the survival of the fittest, an' the wise man must remember that, while he's a descendant of the past, he's also a parent of the bloomin' future. Anyways - " he bit the thruppence and slipped it into his pocket " - Spencer's the name, an' I'm right pleased to have made your acquaintance. Evenin', gents!"

He raised his cap again and retreated to his doorstep, where the rain couldn't reach him.

Burton and Swinburne continued their patrol.

"What an extraordinary fellow!" Swinburne reflected. "Here's Brundleweed's. It looks quiet."

It did, indeed, look quiet. The grille was down, the window display was intact, and the lights were off.

"I wonder how Trounce and Bhatti are getting on," Burton said. He tried the door. It didn't budge. "It looks all right. Let's foot it to Scrannington Bank."

The cold wind battered them and the deluge lanced into their faces. They pulled the brims of their hats down low and the collars of their coats up high, but it was a lost cause.

Burton was shivering uncontrollably. Tomorrow, he knew, he was going to be in a bad way.

The bank loomed ahead. It was a big, dirty, foreboding edifice.