The king's agent saw the small rear wheel of his assistant's velocipede fly upward before dropping back into the mist. He heard the machine's engine race, cough, splutter, and die.
He squeezed his brake levers and swung down from his vehicle, plunging into the cloud.
“Algy? Did you hit something? Are you all right?”
“Over here, Richard! I-”
Crack!
“Yow!”
Burton moved toward the raised voices, peering into the murk. Were those figures just ahead?
“Algernon?” he called.
“Gah!” came the response.
A man ran out of the rolling vapour. He was dressed in nothing but a ripped and bloodied shirt, a top hat, and a pair of socks held up by gaiters. “She's bloody insane!” he wailed, and sped past.
Another gentleman followed, barefoot and buttoning up his trousers. “Get out of here! The strumpet is spitting feathers!”
A woman in a floral dressing gown hurried into view and shouted after them: “Oy! Sir George! Mr. Fiddlehampton! Come back! Sirs! Sirs! You ain't paid the bleedin’ Governess!”
She looked at Burton. “You a bloody rozzer, or what? ’Cos if you are, you can bleedin’ well stuff it.”
“I'm not the police. What's all that noise about? Who's screaming?”
Crack!
“Yow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ha ha!”
That was Algy!
“What's happening? Answer me!”
The girl shrugged and gestured over her shoulder. “It's Betsy, ain't it? She's gone bloody loopy. ’Ere, if ya ain't a rozzer, maybe we could-”
Burton pushed past her and strode forward until he found himself mingling with a small crowd of semi-clad men and girls who'd gathered in a wide ring around a curvaceous brunette. She was heavily made-up, and wore little more than a tight black whalebone bodice, French bloomers, and high-heeled boots.
In her left hand she held a whip, the end of which was coiled around the neck of a man kneeling meekly behind her wearing nothing but underpants. She had a second whip in her right hand, and with this, she was lashing at a small figure that hopped, jerked, and danced before her.
It was Algernon Swinburne.
Crack!
The leather thong coiled around the poet's hindquarters.
“Ouch! Ouch! Hah, yes! But really, Betsy, what do you think-”
Crack!
It slashed at his waist, ripping his shirt and slicing through his belt.
“Woweee! No! Ow! Ow!-do you think you are doing with that-”
Crack!
His trousers slid to his ankles.
“Narrgh! Oof! Ha ha ha!-doing with that poor gentleman?”
Burton glanced at the woman's prisoner. He looked again, and recognised him: it was the Chancellor of the Exchequer, William Gladstone.
“Mr. Gladstone!” he called, pushing past prostitutes and angry customers. “What are you doing?”
“Shut up!” snapped the whip-wielding woman, who Swinburne had addressed as Betsy.
“It's all right, Richard!” the poet panted. “I have the situation under control.”
“So I see,” Burton replied sarcastically.
“Who are you, sir!” the kneeling politician demanded haughtily.
“Sir Richard Burton.”
“I said shut up!” Betsy ordered.
“Palmerston's swashbuckler?”
“Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that, but-”
Crack!
Burton cried out and fell to one knee, clutching his head, feeling his scalp open up above the left ear. Blood dripped through his fingers.
Crack!
Leather encircled his forearm and neck, tightened cruelly, ripped his sleeve, and slid away. The explorer toppled to the cobbles and quickly rolled aside as the lash sliced through the air again and smacked loudly against the road beside him.
“Hey! I say!” Swinburne shouted. “Don't flog him! Flog me!”
“Be quiet!” Betsy commanded.
“Yes,” said Burton, scrambling to his feet, “be quiet, Algy.”
Above the general hubbub, there sounded the clank and rattle of an approaching litter-crab.
The crowd thinned as men slipped away into the mist.
“Burton,” called Gladstone. “Do not misjudge what you witness here. I am present simply to rehabilitate these fallen women.”
“In you undergarments, sir?”
“They stole my clothes!”
Betsy pulled her lips back over her teeth and hissed: “Oppressor! Hypocrite! Conspirator!”
“Betsy, dear,” said Swinburne, soothingly, “the middle of the street is no place for a discussion about-about-by the way, what is it we're discussing?”
“Pervert!”
Crack!
“Argh! Yowch! You mean poet! ”
“For pity's sake,” Burton growled impatiently. He took three long strides and grabbed the prostitute by the wrists. She let out a howl of fury and started to struggle, biting and kicking.
“Algy! Pull your bloody pants up and help me!”
Swinburne hoisted his trousers up to his waist, held them with one hand, shuffled over, and pulled the thong from around Gladstone's neck.
“I'm married,” the politician told him earnestly. “I've never been guilty of an act of infidelity.”
“You may tell that to the marines-” the poet grinned “-but the sailors won't believe you. There. You're free. I suggest you leg it before the police get here.”
“The police!” Gladstone exclaimed in horror, and without a backward glance, he jumped to his bare feet and took off.
“I'd love to see how he gets home,” said Swinburne.
“Damn it!” Burton yelled as Betsy sank her teeth into his wrist. He pushed her from him and backed away, with Swinburne at his side. The woman, with a whip in either hand, spat and snarled like a wild animal.
The crowd had dispersed-the men running off, the women retreating into the brothel.
Crack!
The tip of a whip flicked through the skin of Burton's forehead. He staggered. Blood dribbled into his eyes.
Betsy circled the two men. “Tichborne is innocent!” she said.
The bulky grey metallic form of the litter-crab loomed out of the mist behind her, its eight legs thumping against the road. From beneath its belly, twenty-four thin arms extended downward, flicking back and forth, picking rubbish from the road and depositing it into the mechanism's flaming maw to be incinerated.
“Move aside, madam,” Burton advised.
“Why don't you keep your fat mouth shut?”
“Betsy, there's a litter-crab right behind you,” Swinburne shrilled, urgently.
Betsy giggled insanely. “Stupid bloody toffs.”
“You're going to be-” Burton began.
The prostitute let out a piercing cry and flicked her whip up to strike. Burton flinched in anticipation, but even as he did so, the tip of the girl's weapon flew back and tangled with one of the collector arms under the lumbering machine. The thong was yanked violently, jerking her off her feet. She went sprawling backward and rolled under the advancing crab. The twenty-four metal arms pummelled and thrashed at her. She screeched and writhed and fainted. Seconds later, the litter-crab froze as the fail-safe system activated, a valve clicked open on its back, and steam whistled out at high pressure. The emergency siren started to wail.
Burton stepped over to the machine, bending to peer at the prone body beneath.
“Is she dead?” asked Swinburne, raising his voice over the noise.
“No, just scrapes and bruises.”
The poet gave a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness! She's one of my favourites.”
“Still?”
Swinburne nodded, smiled, and gave a shrug.
His trousers dropped.
“Don't shrug again until you have a new belt,” Burton advised. “Come on, let's get away from this bloody racket. The girl is already coming round and the crab's siren will attract a constable soon enough. We'll let the police sort this one out. I've had quite enough of it!”
They returned to their penny-farthings, restarted the engines, and steered past the hulking street cleaner.