Текст книги "Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon"
Автор книги: Mark Hodder
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
Burton glanced uneasily at the nearby officers, who were peering at the sea through binoculars.
“Keep your voice down, please, Bertie,” he said. “And what was after my time?”
“The discovery of radio waves. The technique by which we transmit spoken words and other sounds through the atmosphere to literally anywhere in the world.”
“A mediumistic procedure?”
“Not at all. It's similar to the telegraph but without the wires. It involves the modulation of oscillating electromagnetic fields.”
“That's all mumbo jumbo to me. What are they looking at?”
Wells turned to observe the officers, then raised his binoculars and followed the men's gaze.
“Ah ha!” he said. “The rotorships! Have a squint.”
He passed the binoculars to Burton, who put them to his eyes and scanned the eastern sky, near the horizon, until two dark dots came into view. As they approached, he saw they were big rotorships, each with twelve flight pylons, wings spinning at the top of the tall shafts. The black flat-bottomed vessels were rather more domed in shape than those from his own time, and he could see guns poking out of portholes along their sides.
“Astraeaand Pegasus,”Wells said. “Cruiser class. The Pegasusis the one on the right.”
“They're fast. What are those little things flying around them?”
“Hornets. One-man fighters. They'll swoop in to shoot at the ground defences.”
“Actual insects?”
“Yes. The usual routine. Breed 'em big, kill 'em, scrape 'em out, shove steam engines into the carapaces. The method hasn't changed since your day. Look out! The Konigsbergis bringing her cannon to bear!”
Burton directed the glasses to the city's harbour and saw that the decks of the seagoing vessel were swarming with men. A gun turret, positioned in front of its three funnels, was turning to face the oncoming rotorships. A few moments later, orange light blazed from the muzzle. Repetitive booms, lagging a few seconds behind the discharges, rippled out over the landscape, becoming thin and echoey as they faded away.
He looked back at the rotorships, both almost upon the city now. Puffs of black smoke were exploding around them.
Hornets dived down at the light cruiser and raked her decks with their machine guns.
“Come on, lads!” Wells cheered.
Burton watched men ripped into tatters and knocked overboard as bullets tore into them. A loud report sounded. He lowered the binoculars and saw that metal and smoke had erupted from the side of the Pegasus.
“She's hit!” Wells cried.
The rotorship listed to her left. As her shadow passed over the Konigsberg, small objects spilled from beneath her. They were bombs. With an ear-splitting roar, the German vessel disappeared into a ball of fire and smoke. Fragments of hull plating went spinning skyward. Another huge detonation sounded as the ship's munitions went up.
The Pegasus, rocked by the shock wave, keeled completely over onto her side and arced toward the ground. She hit the southern neighbourhoods of Dar es Salaam and ploughed through them, disintegrating, until, when she finally came to rest, she was nothing but an unrecognisable knot of twisted and tattered metal slumped at the end of a long burning furrow. Hundreds of buildings had been destroyed, maybe thousands of lives lost.
Wells opened his mouth to say something but his words were drowned by thunder as the Astraeastarted to dump her payload onto the middle of the city. The noise slapped again and again at Burton's ears as the colonial district was pummelled and decimated. Soon, all he could see was a blanket of black smoke through which the red lights of Hades flickered, and gliding along above it, silhouetted against the glaring white sky, the menacing rotorship, drawing closer and closer to where the tip of the radio tower emerged from the expanding inferno.
Wells stood on tiptoe and put his mouth to Burton's ear, which was ringing with such intensity that the explorer could barely hear the correspondent's soprano voice: “We had no choice but to do it. I wonder, though-will the human race ever transcend the animalistic impulses that lead to such behaviour?”
Burton yelled back: “I suspect animals would be most offended to be associated with an atrocity like this! What of the people down there? What of the Africans?”
“Casualties of war. As I said, we had no choice!”
“But this isn't their bloody conflict! It isn't their bloody conflict, damn it!”
A quick succession of blasts marked the end of the radio tower. The Astraeaslid over the belt of red weed and sailed northward with hornets buzzing around her.
The attack was already over.
Silence rolled back in from the surrounding countryside, broken only by occasional small explosions.
“She's probably on her way to give Tanga some of the same treatment,” Wells said, watching the rotorship receding into the distance.
Burton stood silently, struggling to stay on his feet. His legs were trembling violently, and his heart hammered in his chest.
“Bismillah!” he muttered. “Bismillah!”
CHAPTER 3
The Eve of Departure
THE BAKER STREET DETECTIVE
Macallister Fogg's Own Paper! Issue 908.
Every Thursday. Consolidated Press.
One Penny.
This Week:
Macallister Fogg and his lady assistant, Mrs. Boswell, investigate
THE PERIL OF THE GRAVITY PIRATES!
by T. H. Strongfellow
Plus the latest instalments of:
DOCTOR TZU AND THE SINGING COBRA by Cecil Barry
FATTY CAKEHOLE'S DORMITORY EMPIRE
by Norman Pounder
“Take us up, Mr. Wenham, no higher than seven thousand feet, if you please.” The order came from William Henson, the rotorship's first officer. He was a slender man, about fifty years old, with an extravagant moustache that curved around his cheeks to blend into bushy muttonchop whiskers. He wore tiny wire-framed spectacles that magnified his eyes while also accentuating his precise and somewhat stern manner.
He turned to Burton and Swinburne, who were standing next to Captain Lawless, having been invited up to the conning tower to witness the takeoff. “We have to keep her low, gentlemen, on account of our ventilation problems. Until we get the heating pipes fixed, flying at any greater altitude will have us all shivering in our socks.”
A vibration ran through the deck as the engines roared. There was no sensation of movement, but through the windows curving around the front and sides of the tower, Burton saw the horizon slip downward.
“Here we go,” declared Francis Wenham, the helmsman. He was at a control console at the front of the cabin, manipulating three big levers and a number of wheels; a beefily built man with pale blond, rather untidy hair, and a wispy goatee beard.
“One thousand five hundred feet,” murmured the man at the station beside him. “Swing her forty degrees to starboard, please.”
“Forty degrees to starboard, aye, Mr. Playfair.”
The horizon revolved around the ship.
Playfair turned to Henson and said, “Course set, sir.”
“Thank you. Ahead, Mr. Wenham. Get her up to forty knots.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Flight time to London, three and a half hours,” Playfair noted.
Swinburne eyed the sharp-faced, dark-eyed navigator. “I didn't see him consult his instruments,” he muttered to Lawless. “Did he just do that calculation in his head?”
“Yes,” the captain answered quietly. “He's a wizard with mathematics, that one.”
The meteorologist-short, very stout, very hairy, and wearing his bulging uniform jacket tightly buttoned-announced: “Clear going until we reach the capital, sir. Fog there.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bingham.”
The captain turned to a tall, heavily bearded man who'd just entered the cabin and said, “Ah, there you are. Sir Richard, Mr. Swinburne, this is Doctor Barnaby Quaint, our steward and surgeon. He'll give you a tour of the ship, see that you're settled into your quarters, and will make sure that you have whatever you require.”
“Is there a bar on board?” Swinburne asked.
Quaint smiled. “Yes, sir, in the lounge, though it's closed at the moment. I dare say I could rustle you up a tipple, should you require it. Would you care to follow me, gentlemen?”
They took their leave of Lawless, left the command cabin, and descended a metal staircase. A short corridor led them past the captain's quarters on one side and the first officer's on the other, and through decorative double doors into the glass-encased observation deck.
They were greeted by Detective Inspectors Trounce and Honesty, Commander Krishnamurthy, Constable Bhatti, and Mrs. Iris Angell, who was beside herself with excitement.
“Who'd have thought!” exclaimed Burton's housekeeper. “Dirty old Yorkshire-see how pretty it appears from up here, Sir Richard!”
He stepped to her side and looked out at the little villages and patchwork fields passing below.
“The northern counties have some of the most beautiful countryside in all of England,” he said. “Did you think it would be different?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “I expected horrible factories everywhere!”
“You'll find plenty of William Blake's ‘dark Satanic mills’ in and around the manufacturing cities, Mrs. Angell, but as you can see, the horror of the North felt by those in the South is generally quite unjustified.”
Burton watched the scenery slide by for a couple more minutes then moved over to where Detective Inspector Honesty was standing alone.
“Hello, old fellow,” he said. “I didn't see much of you at Fryston. Are you all set for Africa?”
Honesty turned to him. “I am. Wife unhappy but duty calls. Must finish this business. Stop interference from the future.” The detective gazed back out of the window and his pale-grey eyes fixed on the horizon. “Africa. Exotic flora. Might collect specimens. Cultivate in greenhouse when we return.”
“Are you an amateur horticulturalist? I didn't know.”
Honesty looked back at Burton and the explorer noticed a strange light in the smaller man's eyes-an odd sort of remoteness about his manner.
“Should've been a landscape gardener. Always wanted to be. Joined the Force on account of my father. A Peeler. One of the originals. Very dedicated. Passionate about policing. Me-I'm just good at it. But gardening-well-” He paused and a small sigh escaped him. “There are different versions of history, Captain?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe in one, I made another choice. Thomas Manfred Honesty: Landscape Gardener.Hope so.”
He returned his attention to the vista outside.
Burton patted the detective's shoulder and left him. He felt troubled by his friend's detached air. Honesty hadn't been quite himself since last September's battle with the Rakes, when he'd had his fingers broken and been throttled almost to death by an animated corpse. It was, Burton thought, enough to unnerve any man.
Trounce approached him. “How long until we reach London? I'm eager to get back onto the trail of our murderer.”
“A little over three hours.” Burton lowered his voice. “I say, Trounce, what's your opinion of Honesty? Is he a hundred percent?”
Trounce glanced toward his colleague. “I'd say he's the most determined of us all, Captain. He's a man who likes everything to be just so. The idea that an individual can hop back through time and turn it all on its head doesn't sit well with him.”
Burton gave a small nod of understanding. “The steward is taking us on a tour of the ship. Join us?”
“I will, thank you.”
Leaving Honesty, Krishnamurthy, Bhatti, and Mrs. Angell-all of whom had been around the vessel earlier that morning-Burton, Swinburne, and Trounce followed Doctor Quaint back into the corridor. As they passed by the captain's rooms, a small, slightly pudgy boy emerged.
“All shipshape, Master Wilde?” the doctor asked.
“That it is, sir. Good morning to you, Captain Burton, Mr. Swinburne, Detective Inspector Trounce. Welcome aboard!” The boy grinned, habitually raising his hand to his nose in order to conceal his rather crooked and yellowing teeth.
“Hallo, Quips!” said Burton.
Quaint addressed the explorer: “I understand Master Wilde is with us at your recommendation, sir?”
“He is indeed.”
“And I'm much obliged, so I am, Captain,” Wilde said.
“By Jove, little 'un!” Trounce exclaimed. “If someone had told you a year ago that you'd be flying to Africa as a crewmember aboard the biggest rotorship ever built, would you have believed them?”
“I can believe anything provided it is incredible, Mr. Trounce.”
“Ha! Quite so! Quite so! And I daresay it's a great deal better than going to school, hey?”
“I wouldn't know, never having suffered such an indignity. While education may be an admirable thing, it is well to remember that nothing worth knowing can be taught. Now then, I must get myself up to the captain to have these acquisition orders signed. There's much to be done, so there is, if we're to depart the country without leaving unpaid debts behind us. I'll see you later, gentlemen!”
“Good Lord!” Quaint said as Wilde disappeared up the stairs to the conning tower. “Where does he get those nimble wits from?”
“I have no idea,” Burton answered. “Perhaps his diet of butterscotch and gobstoppers has affected his brain.”
They moved on down the corridor, passing the crew's quarters, and entered the lounge, a large space stretching from one side of the ship to the other. There were tables and chairs, a small dance floor and stage, and, to Swinburne's evident satisfaction, a bar in one corner.
“How many passengers can the Orpheusaccommodate, Doctor?” Burton asked.
“Two hundred, sir. The smoking room is ahead of us, and beyond that the dining room, then a small parlour, and the first-class cabins all the way to the stern, where the reading room is situated. From there we'll take the stairs down to the rear observation room, pass through the cargo hold to the galley and pantries, then the engine room, and on to the standard-class cabins in the prow end of the ship. As you can see, those rooms have access to this lounge via staircases on the port and starboard sides. Of course, the ship has a number of other rooms, but those are the main ones.”
“Phew!” Trounce gasped. “Mr. Brunel certainly likes to work on a grand scale!”
They continued their tour, marvelling at the opulence that surrounded them-for every fixture and fitting, and every item of decor, had been handcrafted from the finest materials-and eventually came to the galley, where they found Isabella Mayson unpacking foodstuffs and stocking the larders.
“By heavens, Miss Mason!” Quaint cried out. “You're making fast progress! The last time I looked in, this room was chock-a-block with unopened boxes!”
“A place for everything and everything in its place, Doctor Quaint,” the young woman responded. “We took a great many supplies on board in Yorkshire and we'll be adding more when we get to London. If I don't have the kitchen in order by then, it'll mean more work and delayed meals. We wouldn't want that, would we?”
“Certainly not!” Quaint agreed.
Miss Mayson smiled at the steward and said, “I shall be serving an early lunch at half-past twelve, Doctor.”
“Good!” Swinburne interjected. “I'm famished!”
Quaint led them out of the galley, past cabins given over to various shipboard functions, and into the first of the huge engine-room compartments. After Daniel Gooch had shown them around the massive twin turbines, they moved on to the standard-class cabins, where they encountered Sister Raghavendra, who was organising a small surgery. As Quaint explained, it was essential to have medical facilities aboard the ship, not only to cater for any passenger who might be taken ill, but also because some of the engineering duties were exceedingly hazardous. It was the job of the riggers, for example, to maintain the flight pylons, which sometimes meant crawling out onto them while the Orpheuswas in mid-flight. They wore harnesses, of course, but a fall could still be damaging. Riggers had been known drop then swing into the side of their ship, suffering a crushing impact.
“Now that you have your bearings, gentlemen, I shall take my leave of you,” the doctor said as they reached a staircase at the prow of the vessel. “There is much to be done before our principal voyage begins, as I'm sure you appreciate.” He looked down at Swinburne. “I have to pass back through the lounge, sir. If you'd care to accompany me, I'll organise that breakfast tipple for you.”
“Bravo!” Swinburne cheered. “That'll be just the ticket!”
“And you, sir?” Quaint asked Burton.
“Too early for me. I'll retire to my quarters to go over the expedition inventory.”
“Then I shall see you at lunch, sir.”
The top ends of four colossal copper rods poked out of the dense fog that blanketed London. Guided by Francis Wenham, HMA Orpheusslid into position between them and gently descended into the central courtyard of Battersea Power Station.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon.
“How times have changed,” Swinburne commented as he and Sir Richard Francis Burton disembarked, wrapped tightly in their overcoats, top hats pressed onto their heads. “Who'd have thought, a couple of years ago, that we'd end up working with Isambard Kingdom Brunel?”
“How times havechanged,” Burton echoed. “That's the problem.”
Herbert Spencer, the clockwork philosopher, emerged from the pall to greet them.
He was a figure of polished brass, a machine, standing about five-feet-five-inches tall. His head was canister-shaped, with a bizarre-looking domed attachment on top of it that was somewhat reminiscent of a tiny church organ. The “face” beneath it was nothing more than three raised circular areas set vertically. The topmost resembled a tiny ship's porthole, through which a great many minuscule cogwheels could be glimpsed. The middle circle held a mesh grille, and the bottom one was simply a hole out of which three very fine five-inch-long wires projected.
Spencer's neck consisted of thin shafts and cables, swivel joints and hinges. His trunk was a slim cylinder with panels cut from it, revealing gears and springs, delicate crankshafts, gyroscopes, flywheels, and a pendulum. The thin but robust arms ended in three-fingered hands. The legs were sturdy and tubular; the feet oval-shaped.
He was an astonishing sight; and few who saw him now would believe that not so many weeks ago he'd been a very human, grubby, and tangle-bearded vagrant.
“Hallo, Boss! Hallo, Mr. Swinburne!” he hooted.
His strange voice came from the helmet-shaped apparatus, recently created and added to the brass man by Brunel. Spencer spoke through it clearly but with a piping effect that sounded similar to the woodwind section of a band.
Burton returned the greeting: “Hallo. How are you, Herbert?”
“I reckons I've a touch of the old arthritis in me left knee,” the philosopher said. “But can't complain.”
“A screw loose, more like!” Swinburne suggested.
“P'raps. I tells you, though-it's a strange thing to be mechanical. I fear me springs may snap or cogs grind to a halt at any bloomin' moment. Speaking o' which, I have good news-I'll be comin' to Africa, after all.”
“How so?” Burton asked as they crossed the courtyard. “Conditions will hardly be conducive to your functioning.”
“Mr. Brunel's scientists have dreamt up a new material what they makes usin' a chemical process. They calls it polymethylene. It's brown, very flexible, but waxy in texture. It's also waterproof, an' can't be penetrated by dust. They've used it to tailor a number of one-piece suits for me, what'll entirely protect me from the climate.”
“You're certain that you'll be shielded and that the material will endure? Remember, there are extremes of heat and cold, as well as mud and dust,” Burton cautioned. “During my previous expedition the clothes literally rotted off my back.”
They arrived at the tall doors of the main building. Spencer reached out and took hold of one of the handles. “The material will no doubt deteriorate over time, Boss,” he said, “but they've supplied me with fifteen of the bloomin' outfits, so I daresay they'll last. Besides-” he gestured at the fog that surrounded them, “-if I can survive this funk, I can survive anythin'!”
“Then I'm delighted,” Burton replied. “You were pivotal in our securing of the South American diamond, and your presence might be of crucial importance when-or, rather, if-we reach the African stone. Welcome to the team, Herbert!”
“Marvellous!” Swinburne added.
The clockwork man pulled the door far enough open for them to pass through.
“Enter, please, gents.”
The two men stepped into the Technologists' headquarters and were almost blinded by the bright lights within.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel had built Battersea Power Station in 1837. At the time, he'd been full of strange ideas inspired by his acquaintance Henry Beresford, and had designed the station to generate something he referred to as “geothermal energy.” The copper rods that stood in each corner of the edifice rose high above it like four tall chimneys, but they extended much farther in the opposite direction, plunging deep into the Earth's crust. Brunel, just thirty-one years old in '37 and still rather prone to exaggeration, had announced that these rods would produce enough energy to provide the whole of London with electricity, which could then be adapted to provide lighting and heat. Unfortunately, since its construction, the only thing Battersea Power Station had ever managed to illuminate was itself, although it was rumoured that this might soon change, for Brunel was thought to have discovered a means to significantly increase the output of the copper rods.
Shielding their eyes, Burton and Swinburne looked into the station and observed a vast workshop. A number of globes hung from the high ceiling. Lightning bolts had somehow been trapped inside them, and they bathed the floor beneath in an incandescent glare, which reflected off the surfaces of megalithic machines-contrivances whose functions were baffling in the extreme. Electricity fizzed, crackled, and buzzed across their surfaces, and shafts of it whipped and snapped across the open spaces, filling the place with the sharp tang of ozone.
Among all this, over to their right, there stood a bulky vehicle. Around twelve feet high and thirty-six in length, it was tubular in shape-the front half a cabin, the back half a powerful engine-and it was mounted on a large number of short jointed legs. Rows of legs also projected from its top and sides. At its rear, steam funnels stuck horizontally outward, while its front was dominated by a huge drill, which tapered from the outer edges of the vehicle to a point, the tip of which stood some eighteen feet in advance of the main body.
Spencer, noticing them looking at it, explained: “That's a Worm-one of the machines what they're usin' to dig the London Underground tunnels. They reckons Underground trains will make it easier for people to move around the city, now that the streets are so congested with traffic. But you won't find me gettin' into one o' them trains. I'd be afraid o' suffocatin'!”
“You can't suffocate, Herbert,” Swinburne objected.
“Aye, so you says!”
Another contrivance caught their eye. Surrounded by a group of technicians and engineers, it was a large barrel-shaped affair on tripod legs with a myriad of mechanical arms, each ending in pliers or a blowtorch or a saw or some other tool. As Burton, Swinburne, and Spencer entered, it swung toward them, lurched away from the Technologists, and stamped over.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” it said, and its voice was identical to Herbert Spencer's, except pitched at a low baritone.
“Hello, Isambard,” Burton answered, for, indeed, this hulking mechanism was the famous engineer-or, more accurately, it was the life maintaining apparatus that had encased him since 1859, earning him the nickname the Steam Man.The king's agent continued: “The crew of the Orpheusis standing ready to take delivery of the vehicles and further supplies. Is everything prepared?”
“Yes, Sir Richard. My people will tarry-harry-excuse me, carry-everything aboard.”
“I say, Izzy!” Swinburne piped up, with a mischievous twinkle in his green eyes. “Has your new speech-rendering device broken?”
“No,” Brunel answered. “But it is not currently interacting sufficiently-effusively-expectantly-I mean, efficiently-with the calculating elephants-um– elements-of my cerebral impasse-er, impulse-calculators. Unanticipated variegations-vegetations-my apologies– variationsare occurring in the calibration of the device's sensory nodes.”
“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “The problem is obviously chronic! I didn't understand a single word you just said! It was absolute gibberish!”
“Algy,” Burton muttered. “Behave yourself!”
“It's all right, Sir Pilchard-er, Sir Richard,” Brunel interjected. “Mr. Spinbroom has not yet forgiven me for the way I treated him during the String Filled Sack affair. I mean the Spring Heeled Jack despair-um– affair.Kleep.”
“Kleep?” Swinburne asked, trying to stifle a giggle.
“Random noise,” Brunel replied. “A recurring poodle. I mean, problem.”
The poet clutched his sides, bent over, and let loose a peal of shrill laughter.
Burton sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Mr. Brunel's speakin' apparatus is the same as me own,” Herbert Spencer put in, raising a brass finger to touch the rounded arrangement of pipes on his head. “But, as you know, me intellect is knockin' around inside the structure o' black diamonds, whereas his ain't, and the instrument responds better to impulses from inorganic matter than from organic.”
“Ah-ha!” Swinburne cried out, wiping tears from his eyes. “So you still have fleshly form inside that big tank of yours, do you, Izzy?”
“That's quite enough,” Burton interrupted, pushing his diminutive assistant aside. He steered the conversation back to the business at hand: “Are we on schedule, Isambard?”
“Yes. We have to declare-compare– repairthe ventilation and leaping-um, heating-system, but the League of Chimney Sweeps has guaranteed periphery-I mean, delivery-of a new section of pipe by six o'clock today, and the work itself will slake– take-but an hour or so.”
Swinburne, who'd regained control of himself, asked, “Why can't you fabricate the pipe yourself?”
“Reg-parp-ulations,” Brunel answered.
Burton explained: “The Beetle has recently secured the sole manufacturing and trading rights to any pipes through which his people must crawl to clean or service.”
“That boy is a genius,” Swinburne commented.
“Indeed,” Burton agreed. “Very well, we'll leave you to it, Isambard. The ship's crew will help your people to load the supplies. The passengers will reconvene here tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Would you like to suspect– inspect-the vehicles before you depart?”
“No time. We have a murder investigation under way. I have to go.”
“Before you do, may I peek– speak-with you privately for a moment?”
“Certainly.”
Burton followed Brunel and stood with him a short distance away. They conversed for a few minutes, then the Steam Man clanked off and rejoined the group of Technologists.
Burton returned.
“What was all that about?” Swinburne asked.
“He was telling me a few things about the babbage device that John Speke has fitted to his head. Let's go.”
“Should I join you, Boss?” Spencer asked.
“No, Herbert. I'd like you to stay and check the inventory against the supplies loaded.”
“Rightio.”
Leaving the clockwork man, Burton and Swinburne walked out through the doors, crossed the courtyard, and joined Detective Inspectors Trounce and Honesty, Commander Krishnamurthy, Constable Bhatti, Isabella Mayson, Mrs. Angell and Fidget, and various other passengers at the foot of the rotorship's boarding ramp. Crewmembers D'Aubigny, Bingham, and Butler were also there, having been granted a few hours' shore leave.
The pea-souper swirled around them all, dusting their clothes and skin with pollutants, clogging their nostrils with soot.
“Are we all ready?” Burton asked his friends. “Then let us go and bid civilisation farewell, except for you, Mother Angell. I fully expect you to maintain its standards while we're gone.”
The group walked out through the station gates and passed alongside the outer wall beside a patch of wasteland that stretched down to nearby railway lines-a location which held bad memories for the king's agent and his assistant, for two years ago they'd been pursued across it by wolf-men and had narrowly avoided being hit by a locomotive.
They followed a path down to Kirtling Street, which took them the short distance to Battersea Park Road. Here they waved down conveyances. Monckton Milnes's guests gradually disappeared, as they each caught cabs home. Mrs. Angell and Fidget climbed into a hansom, bound for 14 Montagu Place; Isabella Mayson took another, for Orange Street; and a growler stopped for Detective Inspector Honesty, Commander Krishnamurthy, and Constable Bhatti, ready to take them each in turn to their respective homes.
A fourth vehicle-a steam-horse-drawn growler-was hailed by Burton for himself, Swinburne, and Trounce.
“Scotland Yard, driver!” the latter ordered.
“Not to Otto Steinruck's house?” Burton asked, as he climbed into the carriage and settled himself on the seat.
“It's out in Ilford,” came the reply. “Too far by cab, so I thought we'd each borrow one of the Yard's rotorchairs.”
The growler swung out onto Nine Elms Lane and chugged along next to the Thames. Its passengers took out their handkerchiefs and held them over their noses, the stench from the river so intense it made their eyes water.
Burton looked out of the window. Somewhere along this road there was a courtyard in which a young girl named Sarah Lovitt had been assaulted by Spring Heeled Jack back in 1839-just one of many attacks Edward Oxford had committed while searching for his ancestor. That was twenty-four years ago, and in that short time Oxford's influence had totally transformed the British Empire. That one man could effect such a change so quickly seemed utterly incredible to Burton but it wasn't without precedent; after all, history was replete with individuals who'd done the same-the Caesars, Genghis Khans, and Napoleons. Oxford had caused the death of Queen Victoria. After that, his influence had been subtler; he'd simply made unguarded comments about the future to Henry Beresford. The marquess had passed that information on to Isambard Kingdom Brunel, whose remarkable creative talents had been set alight by the hints and suggestions, leading to the creation of the political and cultural juggernaut that was the Technologist caste.
