The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man - By Mark Hodder Page 0,93
name names?"
Milnes looked thoughtful for a moment but then shrugged and said: "I'd help if I could, but I simply don't know any of the new crowd."
Swinburne piped up: "What about a chap named Boyle or Foyle? A tall, stooped fellow with a big beard and wire-rimmed spectacles."
Milnes shook his head. "Doesn't ring any bells."
"Do you mean Doyle?" Bradlaugh asked.
"I don't know. Do I?"
"He fits the description and he's a Rake, of that I'm sure. He was at a party at my place a few months back. You were there, too. A little before Christmas. You were in your cups at the time. So was I, come to think of it."
Swinburne threw up his hands. "I was at a party at your place?"
Bradlaugh chuckled. "Your absence of memory is no surprise. You'd been at it long before you even arrived. My footman opened your carriage's door and you plopped out face-first onto the street, while your topper rolled away into the gutter. If it's any consolation, Doyle is a much worse drunkard than you ever were."
Bendyshe snorted. "I don't know about that! There was that time when - " He stopped as Burton's hand clamped his arm tightly.
"Sorry, Tom, but this could be important. Bradlaugh, this Doyle fellow - who is he?"
"A storybook artist. From Edinburgh. Charles Altamont Doyle. He's the brother of my friend Richard Doyle, who's also an artist - you've probably seen his work, he's quite successful. Charles, on the other hand - at least from what I know of him - is simply too unworldly to make much of himself. He's an awfully morbid sort - prone to black moods and fits of despair. I think that's what drives him to drink. It's a tragedy, really. He has a young wife and God knows how many children to support, but what little he earns is spent on the demon booze. He has a taste for burgundy and will sink to any depths to get it, and if he can't, he'll resort to anything else he can lay his hands on. Rumour has it that on one particularly desperate occasion he drank a bottle of furniture polish."
"Good lord!" James Hunt exclaimed. "The man should be in an asylum!"
"I have no doubt that he will be soon," Bradlaugh responded. "At the aforementioned party, he certainly appeared to be teetering on the brink of insanity. He has a pet obsession, a delusion, which seems to haunt his every waking hour. He ranted about it interminably that night; didn't stop until he passed out."
"What is it?" Swinburne asked.
"He's convinced that fairies exist and are communicating with him from the unseen world."
Sir Richard Francis Burton felt goosebumps rise on his forearms.
Bismillah! Fairies again!
"You mean he hears voices in his head?" said Swinburne.
"Absolutely. I should say he's damaged his brain through excessive drinking."
"Where is he now?" Burton asked. "Where does he live?"
"Not with his wife. She threw him out after he stole pocket money from his own children. I believe he has lodgings somewhere in the city but I don't know where."
"And his wife's address?"
Bradlaugh gave it, and Burton copied it into his notebook.
The king's agent looked at the bloodstained towel in his hands.
"If you'll excuse us for a moment, I think Algy and I should repair to the washroom to get properly cleaned up. We'll rejoin you in a few minutes."
"Of course! Of course! Is there anything else you need?" Milnes asked.
"I could do with a belt," Swinburne answered, gripping his trousers as he stood.
"'Tis ever the case," Bendyshe opined with a smirk.
The following morning, while Algernon Swinburne went to call on Charles Doyle's wife, Sir Richard Francis Burton received a visit from Burke and Hare.
Palmerston's odd-job men resembled nothing so much as a couple of eighteenth-century gravediggers. Despite the hot weather, they were dressed in their customary black surtouts, with black waistcoats and white shirts underneath. The Gladstone collars of the latter were cheek-scraping, eye-threatening points that looked utterly ridiculous to Burton. The shirts were tucked into high-waisted knee-length breeches. Yellow tights encased the men's calves. Their black shoes were decorated with large silver buckles. They each held a stovepipe hat.
As the two men stepped into Burton's study, they were greeted with: "Slobbering dolts! Bumble thick-wits!"
"My apologies, gentlemen," Burton said, with a grin. "The new member of my household is somewhat lacking in manners." He gestured toward a perch standing near one of the bookcases. "Meet Pox, my messenger parakeet."