“It has its attractions.”
“But not for the likes o’ me, I suppose. I reckons I'm better off ‘ere on me own little corner of good old Blighty! Got me own patch, ain't I! What more can a man arsk for?”
“Quite so, Mr. Grub. Good day to you!”
“An’ to you, Cap'n!” said Grub, touching the peak of his cap.
Burton strode on.
As he neared his front door, he heard: “Read all about it! Lincoln declares slaves free in Confederate States! Read all about it! Emancipation for slaves in America!”
The king's agent whistled in wonder. He spotted little Oscar Wilde and called him over.
“Big news, eh, Quips?”
“Aye, that it is, sir!” The boy exchanged a newspaper for coins.
Burton read out the headline: “Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation. Well, well! That'll make things difficult for Pam! It looks to me as if America's president is every bit as cunning as our own prime minister!”
“We have really everything in common with America nowadays,” said Quips. “Except, of course, language.”
The king's agent chuckled. “Emancipation!” he announced triumphantly. “I can't say I'll be one whit sad to see that dreadful trade banished. If America is intent on becoming civilised, then Lincoln's proclamation has just taken it a good deal closer to achieving that goal!”
Three harvesters stalked past on their tall legs, each with crated goods swinging in netting below their bodies. The second of them had somehow developed a limp, and as it thudded past, its damaged leg made a rhythmic complaint: creak-ker-chang, creak-ker-chang, creak-ker-chang.
Burton recalled Sir Charles Babbage's hatred of noise.
“The fact is, Captain,” said Quips, “that civilisation requires slaves. The Greeks were quite right there. Unless there are slaves to do the ugly, horrible, uninteresting work, culture and contemplation become almost impossible. Human slavery is wrong, insecure, and demoralising. On mechanical slavery, on the slavery of the machine, the future of the world depends.”
The famous explorer watched the three huge mechanised insects striding away. People scattered from their path. Voices were raised in anger, fists shaken.
“Maybe so, young ‘un. Maybe so.”
He bade the urchin farewell and mounted the steps of his home, glancing up at the boards that covered the hole where his study window used to be. The builders were due tomorrow to effect repairs.
“William Trounce is upstairs,” Mrs. Angell informed him as he entered the hallway.
“You're back!”
“I am, Sir Richard. And a good thing, too. I don't know why, but I've been under the impression that you promised to have the place clean and tidy. I suppose all the sea air must have gone to my head and filled me with funny notions.”
“I'm sorry, Mother. There's been a great deal happening. I haven't stopped!”
“Have you made us safe?”
“Yes. The Tichborne business is over and done with.”
“Good. Get yourself upstairs, then. I'll fetch some cold cuts and pickles for you and your flat-footed friend.”
Burton leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek. “Angell by name, angel by nature. What would I do without you?”
He bounded up the stairs, past the wrecked study, and on to the library.
“Trounce, old man!” he declared as he entered. “It is undoubtedly a splendid day!”
“Gibber-mouth!” Pox squawked from his perch.
The Scotland Yard man rose from a chair, put a book aside, and shook Burton's hand in greeting.
“Thank goodness you're here!” he exclaimed. “I've had to bear the brunt of it all by myself. I don't think I've ever been insulted so assiduously-and that's saying something for a policeman!”
“Sit down. Take a brandy. Smoke a cigar,” said Burton, throwing himself into an armchair.
Trounce sat and squinted at him suspiciously. “By Jove, you almost look happy! I didn't know that infernal face of yours was capable of such an expression!”
“I'm full of good tidings! Brunel has designed a new and more efficient voice-producing instrument-no more of that awful ding-donging-and, at this very moment, he's fitting one to Herbert Spencer. Our clockwork philosopher will be speaking by the end of the day!”
Trounce clapped his hands together. “That's tremendous! What's he going to do with himself? It must be rather awkward, being mechanical!”
Burton produced a cheroot and applied a lucifer to it. “He wants Admiral Nelson's old job-wants to be my valet. Says he doesn't trust anyone else to keep him fully wound. And he wants to write; says he's never had such clarity of thought and already has three volumes completed in his head-he just needs to scribble ’em down. If he uses my autoscribe, he'll be knocking them out at twenty to the dozen!”
“A wind-up author!” exclaimed Trounce. “That really takes the biscuit!”
“It's a publisher's dream,” Burton declared.
“Flap-tongued baboon!” sang Pox.
The king's agent drew in smoke, put his head back, and blew out a perfectly formed ring.
“Good news regarding Sir Roger, too. The Arundell family has taken him in, and Brunel is fitting him with power-driven arms, the same as those worn by Daniel Gooch. That'll certainly compensate for his missing limb. Nothing doing with the face, though; I fear the poor soul will be behind that iron mask for the rest of his life.”
“Will he take up residence at Tichborne House?”
“Yes, and he's adamant that the dole will continue to be paid every year. He still believes in Lady Mabella's curse.”
“I don't blame him. His family has had nothing but trouble since Sir Henry broke his ancestor's vow.”
Burton jumped up and said: “What about that brandy, then?”
He crossed to the chest of drawers by the door and returned with a decanter and a couple of glasses. He poured generous measures and handed one to his friend.
“How's Honesty?” he asked as he returned to his armchair. “Has he recovered from his injuries?”
“More or less. He'll not have use of his hand for a while. He's taking a month's leave. I think the sight of all those animated corpses pushed him to the brink. I've never seen him so unnerved. I daresay time spent with his wife and garden will put him to rights. He's a tough little beggar.” The Scotland Yard man raised his eyebrows. “I'm still waiting,” he said. “It's all good news but none of it explains your-what is it?- ebullience. Is that a word?”
“It is,” Burton smiled. “And the correct one.”
“So let's have it. Tell all.”
The famous explorer took a gulp of brandy, put his glass aside, and said: “Acting on a recommendation from my extraordinarily talented and brilliant assistant-”
“And perverted,” Trounce added.
“And perverted-the government has purchased the seven Francois Garnier Choir Stones from Edwin Brundleweed. They will, I'm happy to report, continue to reside in Herbert Spencer's babbage brain. The government has also bought the seven South American fragments from Sir Roger. Palmerston wants to ensure that all the Eyes of Naga are in British hands. It's a matter of state security.”
“So now they are. What of it?”
“Two of them are, Trounce. Two of them.”
The detective inspector frowned and shook his head. “There are only two. The third has never been discovered. It's somewhere in-Oh.”
Burton's eyes glinted. “Africa!” he said.
“You mean-?”
“Yes, my friend. Tomorrow I shall start putting together an expedition. I'm off to search for the third stone, and, while I'm at it, I mean to locate once and for all the source of the River Nile!”
“You're going to put yourself through all that again?”
“Don't worry, old man. With the government funding the expedition and Brunel supplying vehicles for the initial stages of the safari, I think I can safely predict that this attempt will be a great deal less traumatic than the last!”
Pox let loose a terrific shriek: “Bollocks!”