Текст книги "The curious case of the Clockwork Man"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

“I suggest you continue the inspection with Mr. Faithfull and Mr. Skylark. In the meantime, I'll remain here to interview Sister Camberwick and her nurses. It should be enough to fulfill the terms of the inspection. Once done, a sister can escort me to your office. My colleagues and I will then take our leave and, I assure you, we'll draft a most favourable report. I think it fair to predict that you'll not be bothered by us again.”

The doctor heaved a sigh, gave a smile, and suffered a facial spasm.

A few minutes later, Burton was seated in a small office, alone with Sister Camberwick. The door was closed, muffling the screams and curses from the cells.

“Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Cribbins?”

“No thank you, Sister. Please sit and relax. This is merely a routine procedure, there's nothing to be nervous about.”

“I'm not nervous,” she said. She sat down and adjusted her bonnet. “After working in an asylum, one ceases to feel nerves.”

“I should think that's a great advantage.”

“It is.”

“When did you start here?”

“At the beginning of the year. Early February.”

She glanced into his eyes then looked down at her skirts and straightened them.

“And before that?”

She blinked rapidly. “I served in the Crimea, and, when the war was over, in workhouses.”

“The Crimea. You must have seen great suffering.”

He moved his chair closer to hers and in a low, melodious, and rhythmic tone, recited: “Lo! in that house of misery

A lady with a lamp I see

Pass through the glimmering gloom,

And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss,

The speechless sufferer turns to kiss

Her shadow, as it falls

Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be

Opened, and then closed suddenly,

The vision came and went,

The light shone was spent.

On England's annals, through the long

Hereafter of her speech and song,

That light its rays shall cast

From portals of the past.

A lady with a lamp shall stand

In the great history of the land,

A noble type of good,

Heroic womanhood.”

Sister Camberwick's lower lip trembled.

“‘Santa Filomena’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” Burton murmured. “Look at me, Sister.”

She looked. Her eyes slid away, returned, held.

Burton began to rock back and forth very slightly, almost imperceptibly.

“It is fine work you have done.”

She leaned forward to better hear him.

“And it is fine work you continue to do.”

She seemed transfixed by the deep, soothing quality of his voice, and, unaware that she was doing it, she began to sway, keeping in time with his own movement.

“For the purposes of this interview,” he said, in almost a whisper, “it is important that you relax. This exercise will help. I want you to breathe with me. Feel the air entering your right lung. In. Out. Now breathe into your left. In. Out. Slowly, slowly.”

Gently and patiently he guided her through a Sufi meditation technique, watching as her attention centred on him to the exclusion of all else. He softly issued instructions, taking her from a cycle of two breaths to a cycle of four, subduing her mind through the complexity of the exercise until she was entirely under his control.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Patricia Camberwick,” she answered.

“And behind that? The other name? The one that you've been forbidden to use?”

“Florence Nightingale.”

“Tell me about the circumstances that led to your presence here, Miss Nightingale.”

“I-I can't-I can't remember.”

“I know. The memory has been blocked. What occurred to you happened while you were enslaved by a mesmeric influence. Can you feel that blockage, like a wall in your mind?”

“Yes.”

“It is only a wall because you've been made to think so. The truth is, it's a door. Just walk through it, Florence. Open it and pass straight through.”

Silently, Burton thanked Herbert Spencer for inspiring this mesmeric technique.

“Yes. I'm through.”

“You see how easy that was? The barriers planted in your mind have no power now.”

“No power.”

“So, tell me. What happened?”

“The woman.”

“Woman? Who?”

“The Russian. I don't know how she entered my surgery. I was conducting an experiment and had locked the doors. I didn't want to be disturbed. I heard a footstep behind me. I turned and there was the woman.”

“What did she look like?”

“Medium height. Heavy. The maternal type. Horrible black eyes.”

“Was she solid? I mean to say, was she an apparition?”

“An apparition? A ghost? No, she was there.”

“What happened next?”

“I-I-I fell into her eyes. Those eyes! I fell right into them!”

“She mesmerised you. What did she instruct you to do?”

“She told me to travel to Santiago in South America, to go to the asylum there and use the authority of my name to take charge of a patient named Tomas Castro. I was to escort him back here to Bethlem Royal, but upon entering this hospital I must use the name Patricia Camberwick and forget my true name. Service here had been prearranged for me and my primary duty was to care for and guard Mr. Castro. I must not allow anyone to see him apart from the woman and a man named Edward Kenealy.”

“Castro is still here?”

“Yes, on this floor, in the observation chamber.”

“Why were we not shown that room?”

“Doctor Monroe and the senior staff have had their memory of the room removed. An aversion to the door that leads to it has been implanted into them. They think it's a broom cupboard.”

“So, with the exception of the Russian and Kenealy, are you the only person who visits Castro?”

“Yes.”

“Take me to him.”

“Yes.”

Nightingale stood and, as if sleepwalking, drifted across and out of the room, leading Burton along the corridor to a nondescript door. She pulled a bunch of keys from her apron pocket and unlocked it. Burton followed her across the threshold and down a short passage leading to a heavily bolted portal.

“There,” Nightingale said.

“Lead the way,” he replied.

Keys were inserted and turned, bolts drawn, a padlock opened, and a chain removed. With the nurse's shoulder pressed against it, the barrier swung aside with a painful creak. She stepped onto a platform that ran around the wall of a tall circular chamber, about fifteen feet up from the floor. The room was fifty feet or so in diameter, fitfully illuminated by four gas lamps, and was sparsely furnished with a bed, table, chair, and a wooden screen, which, Burton guessed, concealed a toilet and basin.

A thin chain, attached to an iron ring set in the middle of the floor, snaked across to where a man lay on the bed. It was joined to a manacle that encircled his left ankle.

He was dressed only in ragged trousers and an undershirt, and was dreadfully thin. His left arm ended in a bandaged stump just below the elbow. His face was encased in an iron mask, featureless but for four horizontal slits, one for each eye, one level with his nostrils, and one for the mouth.

Tomas Castro.

The man struggled to a sitting position and looked up at them.

“ Ce qui maintenant? ” he whispered huskily. “Is there to be more torment? Who is this? I have not seen him before.”

He spoke with a French accent.

Burton turned to Nightingale. “Follow me.”

He walked along the platform until he came to a ladder and descended to the chamber floor.

Castro rose weakly to his feet as Burton approached.

“Please, don't exert yourself,” the king's agent said. “Remain seated. You are Sir Roger Tichborne, I take it?”

“Tichborne? Mon dieu! You are the first to call me that in a long time. It has been Castro, only Castro.” His voice sounded hollow behind the mask.

Burton took the chair and placed it near the bed. He sat down. Tichborne fell back onto the thin mattress and said: “But you address me as ‘Sir.’ Is it that I have inherited the baronetcy?”

“No little time ago. I'm afraid your uncle and father both died within a week of each other back in ’54, shortly before you were committed. It was reported that you were lost at sea whilst voyaging back to England. Your brother Alfred took the title. I regret to inform you that he, too, is dead. He was murdered by your enemies earlier this year.”

“Alfred,” Tichborne croaked. “ Mon cher frere! ” He raised his hand and rested the front of his mask against it. “And this year, it is?” came his muffled voice.

“It is now September of 1862.”

There was a moment of silence, broken when the prisoner began to quietly weep.

Burton leaned forward and placed a hand on the man's upper arm.

“Sir, there has been a vast and terrible conspiracy against you. I am trying to untangle the web, to discover who has spun it and why. It would help considerably if you could tell me your story. Do you have the strength?”

Tichborne raised his head. “Then you mean to help me?”

“I will do everything in my power. My name is Richard Burton. I am an agent of the king.”

“No, wait,” said Tichborne. “ Non. Non. It cannot be. Non. This, it is a trick. That-” he pointed at Nightingale “-that fiend is one of the conspirators. If she is with you, then you are with them! ”

“You are mistaken, sir. This woman, who you may know as Sister Camberwick, is, in fact, named Florence Nightingale. She has been operating under a deep mesmeric trance. She knows neither what she has done nor why. She is as much a victim as you are.”

“Ce n'est pas possible! And now? Why is she not screaming for help?”

“Because I myself have a modicum of talent as a mesmerist and have gained control of her.”

Tichborne sat silently, gazing at the nurse. Burton could see his wet, lidless eyes shining through the slits of the mask.

“My story,” the baronet whispered. “My story.” He looked at Burton. “Very well. I shall tell it. Where would you like me to begin?”

“With your voyage to South America-but we have little time, Sir Roger, so broad strokes, if you please.”

“ Bien. I sailed in ’54. I had been wooing a distant cousin, Kattie-”

“Katherine Doughty,” Burton interjected.

“ Ah! Oui. Elle vit? ”

“Yes, she lives. She is well.”

Tichborne nodded, paused, and asked: “Married?”

“Yes.”

“ Oui. Oui. Naturellement. ” He looked down, ran his fingers over the stump of his left arm, looked up, and went on: “Kattie's parents, they were not in favour of me, and I cannot blame them. I was young and irresponsible. I felt I had to prove myself to them, and got it into my head that I would go to Chile to follow in my grandfather's footsteps, for there is a legend in the family that he discovered a fabulous diamond in that country, and though no one has ever seen it-and the legend is no doubt untrue-it fired my imagination. What a fool I was! I arrived in Valparaiso-”

“Which is where they say you received the news that your uncle had passed away.”

“ Mais non! I never did! I stayed in the port for but a day then began my journey inland toward Santiago. I eventually settled in a town named Melipilla, at the foot of the Cerro Patagua Range, which is where I suspected my grandfather had done his prospecting. I lived with the family of a man named Tomas Castro, and in his company made forays into the mountains, sometimes living in tents for many days before returning to his home.

“What happened next, monsieur, is difficult for me to explain, for my memories, they are confused. Castro and I had ventured farther into the mountains than ever before, and were both suffering from the altitude and thin air. My friend seemed to be the most affected. He began to experience wild hallucinations and became delirious. He insisted that we had displeased the secret inhabitants of the mountains by our presence, and that the only way to placate them was by sacrifice. I began to fear for my life, for he seemed to me to be losing his mind.”

“Secret inhabitants?” Burton asked. “Did he have a name for them?”

“ Oui. He called them the Cherufe. He said they were the ghosts of an ancient race that had once inhabited the Earth.”

“What happened?”

“As the days passed, I was stricken by terror, not only of him, but also of the things I began to see hiding amid the rocks and undergrowth.”

“What things?”

“I am embarrassed to say. You must understand, monsieur, that they were not real. I was suffering from visions caused by an insufficiency of oxygen.”

“It's important, Sir Roger. What did you see?”

“I saw fairies, tiny people with the wings of moths, butterflies, and dragonflies. I saw them in broad daylight, and at night they came to me in my dreams. I know now that I was going insane. Certainly, Castro was, for one night, he tried to murder me. He struck me on the head and laid me on a rock. It would serve as an altar, he said. He then took a knife and went to thrust it into my heart. I rolled from the rock and we fought. He was savage, a wild beast, his eyes were filled with madness. I pushed him. He fell and cracked his skull. The blow killed him.

“The little people had gathered to watch our conflict. They terrified me, and I think, monsieur, that the fear broke my mind. I remember little else until, one day, I became aware that I was in an asylum. They called me Tomas Castro. It seems I had taken my victim's name. I protested that I was an English gentleman but they would not believe me. I was trapped in a nightmare and my sanity was a frail thing. I am sure it failed me again and again. The time I spent in that hell-it-it-”

Tichborne bent and was wracked by a great sob that shook him from head to toe. Burton held tight to the man's shoulder.

“Sir Roger, your suffering is coming to an end, I give you my word. You must hold yourself together for just a little while longer.”

“I-I apologise, Monsieur Burton. I am weak. If you had-if-”

“I understand. Pray finish your account.”

“That woman-” he nodded toward Florence Nightingale, where she stood, blank-eyed “-came to the asylum one day, sedated me, and took me away. I was brought to this place. How long I have been here, I do not know. I have seen no one but her, a Russian bitch, and a lunatic named Kenealy.”

“And these latter two, what did they want of you?”

“The diamond! Always the diamond! I said to them again and again: ‘There is no diamond, it is a myth! The story is as absurd as the legendary Tichborne curse!’ So then they wanted to know all about that, and I told them of Roger de Tichborne and Lady Mabella and the Tichborne dole, and then-and then-”

“Yes?”

“Then they took me into a room, strapped me to a table, and sedated me. In my last moments of consciousness, I saw her, the connasse -” he jabbed a finger at Nightingale “-lean over me with a scalpel in her hand. When I awoke, she had taken my arm and my face. Mon dieu! Mon dieu! ”

“I am sorry,” Burton said. “They have kept you prisoner here since then?”

“Yes, but that is not all. They visit me frequently and ask always about my life and my habits. They want to know everything! Every detail! On and on! Questions! Questions! Questions!”

“It is because they have a man masquerading as you,” Burton revealed.

“They have-what? Why?”

“Their scheme is elaborate and I'm still unsure of the ultimate motive. I shall find out, though, you can be sure of that. I will stop them, Sir Roger, and soon. When I do, you will be liberated from this frightful place. Until then, you must remain here and keep this visit of mine a secret. Can I trust you to do that?”

“Yes. Me, you can trust-but her?”

“I am going to bring Nurse Nightingale out of her trance now. I will reveal the truth to her. I believe she will work with us to secure your freedom. She's a strange woman; her dedication to medical research has driven her into ethically dubious territory in recent years, but no one can forget what she did during and after the Crimea. I believe that, at heart, she desires only the greater good.”

“I will trust your judgement, Monsieur Burton. But you cannot take me with you now?”

“If I do so, your enemies will know that I'm moving against them. They may flee before we ever learn their intentions. It's better that they remain in the dark.”

“So you wish me to stay? Truly, I don't know that I can! If I allow myself to believe that liberation is close at hand, every extra moment in this hell will seem an eternity. But no, no, I understand your reasoning. Stay, I must-and stay, I shall! What matters a few more days or weeks after all this time?”

“Good man. I must hurry now. I've already been away for too long.”

He stood and paced over to Florence Nightingale.

“You have listened to this discussion?”

“Yes,” she replied dully.

“I am going to take you through some breathing exercises. They will bring you to full awareness. You will remember everything.”

“Ah, Mr. Cribbins, at last. You've taken a deuce of a– ugh! -time!”

“My apologies, Doctor Monroe, I became fascinated by one of your unfortunates. Patient 1036 on corridor nine.”

“1036? 1036? Which one is that?”

“The gentleman who ate his mother.”

“Oh, yes. A fascinating study. We tested an interesting therapy on that one. We– ugh! -introduced him to another of our patients. A mother who ate her son.”

“And what happened?”

“They had dinner together.”

“Are you serious?”

“There were doctors in attendance, of course.”

Damien Burke stepped forward. “A most intriguing scenario, Doctor Monroe, but I feel we've already taken up far too much of your valuable time. We should be going, isn't that right, Mr. Skylark?”

“Absolutely correct, Mr. Faithfull. Do you agree, Mr. Cribbins?”

“Indeed! Indeed! My apologies, Doctor Monroe, and thank you very much indeed for allowing us to tour your fine establishment. I think it fair to say that it has made an indelible impression on all three of us.”

Monroe smiled and shook Burton's hand, then Burke's, then Hare's.

They proceeded down to the lobby and out onto the front steps. Monroe bade them a final farewell and indicated a horse-drawn carriage waiting on the driveway. “This will take you across the grounds to the main– Ugh! ”

“Gate,” Burton finished.

Monroe blinked at him, pursed his lips, turned, and disappeared back into the hospital.

The king's agent looked at the sky and frowned. The atmosphere was thick and steamy, and through it, ugly smudges of smoke could be seen drifting raggedly overhead. Flakes of ash were falling.

“It's been a while since we had a London particular,” he muttered.

They climbed into the carriage and, a couple of minutes later, arrived at the big main gate, in which a smaller door was set.

They thanked the driver and tipped their hats to the guard who opened the door for them.

Sir Richard Francis Burton, Damien Burke, and Gregory Hare stepped out of the mental asylum into– madness!

L ondon was ablaze.

At ground level, the smoke was suffocating. Hellish red and orange light flared through the swirling clouds.

“What the-”

Burton was cut off by a scream of fury. A man came tearing out of the murk, dressed only in trousers and boots, his naked upper body smeared with blood, sweat, and soot. His face was contorted with animal ferocity, and before they could react, he swung a pitchfork with vicious force into Damien Burke's upper left arm.

Burke fell sideways with a yell of pain.

Gregory Hare jumped onto the back of the attacker, snatched the pitchfork out of his hand and threw it aside, wrapped a huge forearm around the man's neck, and squeezed. Seconds later, he was lowering the limp body to the pavement.

Burton snapped back into himself. The assault had been so sudden and brutal that he'd stood frozen, disassociated.

“Damn it!” he muttered, and joined Hare on his knees at Burke's side.

“It's bad,” Burke gasped. “Broken.”

“You're losing blood. Hare, give me your cravat. We need to get a tourniquet on him right away. Don't worry, old man,” he encouraged Burke. “We'll have you fixed up in no time.”

“Mr. Hare will attend to me, Captain,” Burke responded weakly. “I recommend you draw your spine-gun and see to our defence.” He nodded at the street behind Burton.

The king's agent twisted around and saw five individuals shuffling into view. There were two men and three women. All wore dishevelled clothing and diabolical grins. Their eyes were wide and glazed.

One of the women held a dripping severed arm that had, apparently, been torn from its owner's shoulder.

She seemed to recognise the shock in Burton's eyes and responded to it by shouting: “Meat! Tichborne wants meat!” She then raised the limb to her mouth and clamped her teeth into it with a muffled giggle. The giggle turned into a gurgle as blood bubbled down over her chin.

“Your gun, sir!” Damien Burke groaned.

Burton grunted, stood, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the cactus pistol and pressed the nodule that activated it.

“Die!” said one of the approaching men. “You-upper-crust-bastards.”

The woman with the arm, distracted by the taste of blood, lost interest in Burton and his companions. She squatted on her haunches and began to rip mouthfuls of flesh from the bone, swallowing chunks of raw, bloody human meat.

Burton, sickened, wanted to look away. Instead, he raised his strange pistol and shot her in the forehead.

She collapsed onto her back and lay still with the arm across her throat.

The remaining two men and two women screamed and lurched forward, their arms outstretched, their fingers curled into claws, their eyes rolling aimlessly.

Holding his right wrist with his left hand to keep it steady, Burton shot them each in turn.

He released a shuddering breath, looked at the fallen bodies, and allowed his arms to drop to his sides. He was trembling as if in the grip of another malarial fever.

“What the hell is happening?” he muttered.

Something exploded in the distance.

He stepped back to the hospital gate and hammered upon it.

“Let us in! Hey in there! Open up!”

There was no response. The guard had apparently locked the door before returning to the main building with the carriage driver.

“Help me up with him, if you would, Captain,” Hare said.

Burton lifted his hat, yanked off his wig and false beard, shoved them into a pocket, replaced his topper, and assisted Hare.

“The rioters appear to be rather more zealous than they were yesterday,” the prime minister's man noted. “Yet, equally, rather more mindless. I need to get Mr. Burke back to Whitehall. I suggest we make our way along the Lambeth Road to Saint George's Circus, and follow Waterloo Road to the bridge. What say you?”

“I say let's go.”

“I can support Mr. Burke now that he's up, Captain. You keep that pistol handy.”

Burton nodded and began to move slowly through the eye-watering fumes, with his companions following behind.

Beams of light swept over them from above. A huge police rotorship descended, its turbines roaring, steam belching from its exhausts. The down-draught from its rotors cleared the street of smoke, and Burton saw that debris and bodies were scattered all over.

“This is the police!” an amplified voice announced.

The king's agent looked up and noticed a cluster of speaking trumpets projecting down from the ship's hull.

“This is the police. Return to your homes. Stay inside and bar your doors and windows. Do not venture onto the streets. A state of emergency has been declared. Return to your homes. This is the police. Return to your homes. Remain inside.”

The mammoth flying machine slowly slid away over the rooftops. As it passed, ash-laden smoke rolled back over Burton and his colleagues.

A horse bolted past, trailing the broken shafts of a wagon behind it.

Somewhere nearby, glass smashed and rained onto the pavement.

Incoherent shouts echoed from the near and far distance.

Cautiously, they moved on.

Ahead, a male voice pleaded: “Help me! Oh, sweet Lord, help me! No! Please! Though I walk in the valley of death I shall-”

It was cut off.

A broken walking stick came whirling out of the miasma and clattered onto the cobbles inches from Burton's feet.

Moments later, through the gloom, they saw the other half of it. One end was held in the hand of a snarling street pedlar. The other end-the broken end-had been thrust up into the base of an elderly clergyman's chin and was projecting from the top of his skull. The pedlar was holding his victim upright but released him as he saw the trio approaching. The dead man crumpled to the pavement. His murderer laughed. Froth sprayed from his mouth. He wiped his bloodied hand on his thigh.

Without hesitation, Burton shot cactus spines into the pedlar's neck and winced at the sound the man's skull made as it hit the road.

“We should proceed with greater haste,” he advised Palmerston's men. “Can you manage?”

“Yes, Captain,” Hare replied. “Though Mr. Burke seems to be uncon– Look out!”

Burton gasped and stepped back as a wraith materialised right in front of him. He saw the figure clearly. It was dressed in a long frock coat, wore a top hat, and its mouth was hidden behind a soup-strainer mustache. Then it dissolved and blew away, nothing but a ribbon of dirty particles.

“What are those things?” Hare whispered.

“I don't know, but each time I see one it appears a little more solid, more opaque. I think they're gaining in strength, and they're inciting this violence.”

They pressed on and reached Saint George's Circus. A man ran out of a shop, stopped in front of them, and raised an antiquated blunderbuss.

“Die for Tichborne, you posh sods!” he shouted. He pulled the trigger and the weapon exploded in his face, blowing off his right ear.

“Christ!” he screamed. “My bloody head!”

Burton shot him and the man crumpled.

The rumble of approaching wheels came out of the smoke.

“Let that be an empty cab!” Burton pleaded.

It was.

A steam-horse erupted from the fumes, pelting along at full speed, its crankshafts clanking. It was dragging behind it an old-fashioned landau, engulfed in flames. The vehicle careened past them, bounced onto the pavement, and ran smack into the front of a tavern. Glass burst noisily and an angry clamour of voices came from within the building. The vehicle's boiler detonated, hot metal flying in all directions. The front of the building collapsed into the street, sending bricks, glass, and masonry spinning into the air.

Gregory Hare yelled in pain.

Burton turned and saw that a chunk of metal had embedded itself in his colleague's left arm. He slipped under the semiconscious Burke's shoulder to keep him upright and gave a steadying hand to the other man.

“Oof!” Hare grunted. “This isn't good! Ouch! Ouch! Not good at all, Captain!”

The king's agent looked at the wound.

“Wait,” he snapped.

He lowered the two men to the ground then shrugged out of his jacket, dropped it, gripped the sleeve of his shirt, and ripped it off.

“How many tourniquets am I to tie today, hey, Hare? Must you and Burke do everything together? You both have wounds in exactly the same blessed place!”

“I apologise, sir,” Hare groaned. “A terrible inconvenience. Is it serious?”

“Three men, two out of action, one weapon between them, in the midst of a riot? Yes, I should judge that to be fairly serious. As for the wound, it would be as severe as Mr. Burke's were it not for the fact that your biceps are the size of thigh muscles. The bone is intact.”

“As I say, sir, I'm terribly sorry.”

“Don't be a fool,” Burton growled, tugging the tourniquet tight. “You hardly leaped into the path of that projectile.”

In the distance, the police announced: “Get off the streets. Remain inside.”

Tongues of flame licked from the ruined tavern. Screams came from within.

Burton retrieved his jacket and put it back on. “Mr. Burke is out cold. Stay with him. Hold this.” He pushed the cactus gun into Hare's hand. “I'll be back in a jiffy.”

He dived into the murk. Something had caught his eye moments ago. It had possibilities.

“We have to keep moving, Captain!” Hare called after him.

Burton ran back the way they'd come until he reached the edge of the square. He peered to his right, through the swirling haze.

It was still there.

He returned to Burke and Hare.

“There's an abandoned omnipede,” he reported, taking back the pistol. “I suggest we hijack the blighter. It'll get us over Waterloo Bridge in no time.”

“You can drive the contraption?” Hare asked.

“I can try. I don't think the controls are much different from those on a rotorchair. Come on.”

He helped Hare with Burke, dragging him along until they reached the giant mechanised millipede. It was slumped across the road, empty but for the driver, whose corpse hung over the edge of the control seat.

“Looks like he was bludgeoned,” Hare muttered.

They hauled Burke up the steps in the side of the vehicle's carapace and laid him on a bench. He stirred and moaned.

“Help me to shift the driver,” Burton said. “Try not to use your injured arm-I don't want you bleeding any more than you already are.”

“Me neither, Sir Richard.”

They descended and moved to what used to be the head of the gigantic insect. As they dragged the dead body down and across to the side of the road, Hare noted that there weren't many people about. “It seems like a wave of rioters has come and gone through this part of town,” he ruminated. “I wonder where they are now? Do you think they're still at it, Captain?”

“From the various cries and screams we're hearing, it appears that passions are still running high,” Burton replied. “But whether the riot is dying down or has just moved past this district remains to be seen. There were certainly a fair few unfortunates in that tavern when the landau hit it.”

He suddenly pointed the pistol at the other man and pressed the trigger. With a soft phut! seven spines flew past Hare's ear and embedded themselves in the throat of the woman who'd loomed out of the smoke behind him. The length of pipe she held poised to crack down onto his head fell from numb fingers and clanged onto the road. She dropped on top of it.

“Much obliged,” said Hare.

“Take the cactus gun again. I'll drive. You shoot.”

Hare grasped the proffered weapon and clambered back onto the omnipede. He stood by the bench upon which Burke lay and braced himself against the canopy, clamping his injured arm against his side, holding the spine-shooter ready.

Burton slipped into the driver's seat and examined the controls. A gauge indicated that the furnace was still burning and another that boiler pressure was high. He settled his feet onto a plate which operated in the same way as the one in his rotorchair: press it forward with the toes to accelerate and backward with the heels to slow and brake. There were two levers to facilitate steering.