He passed through to a hallway and entered the next room, which he found was at the front of the building. He recognised it at once. He'd seen it through a security grille. It was Brundleweed's-the diamond dealer's shop.
He returned to the safe and examined it.
“Emptied out!” he said, softly. “But why would Brunel-the most lauded engineer in the Empire-steal diamonds? It doesn't make sense!”
The public believed that Isambard Kingdom Brunel had died from a stroke in 1859. They regarded him as one of the greatest Englishmen ever to have lived. Little did they know that he'd actually retreated into a mobile life-maintaining mechanism, and, from it, still directed the Technologists’ various projects.
“What the devil is he playing at?” Burton muttered.
There was nothing further he could do here-and the longer he remained, the farther away the Steam Man and his three clockwork assistants would get.
He turned and ran back the way he'd come. It took but a few moments to reach the ladder and climb it.
Someone called to him as he poked his head out into the rain: “Burton! Burton! Hurry up, man!”
“Trounce? Is that you? Give me a hand, will you?”
“Wait there!”
He squinted through the downpour, saw figures milling about, sliding down the slope toward him, and was surprised when Spencer the philosopher emerged from the rain.
“Hallo, Boss! Reach up an’ we'll ’ave you out in a jiffy!”
“Hello, Mr. Spencer! Here, grab the end of my cane!”
He extended his stick toward the vagrant, who clutched it tightly.
Burton clambered up and gripped Spencer's wrist. He saw that the beggar was held by Trounce, who in turn was held by Bhatti.
Swinburne, who wasn't holding anybody, was jumping up and down on the other side of the fence, screeching: “Don't let go of him! Don't let go!”
The chain of men pulled Burton up out of the pit, over the fallen fence, and onto the pavement.
“By Jove!” Trounce observed. “You're a sight!”
Burton looked down at himself. He was caked with mud from top to toe. He felt as bad as he looked, but, ignoring the ache burrowing through his bones, he twisted off the lantern, thrust it into his pocket, and reported his discovery: “It's a diamond robbery. They tunnelled into Brundleweed's from the side of the underground river.”
“Strewth!” Constable Bhatti gasped. “Old Brundleweed took a big delivery a couple of days ago. The crooks must have made off with a fortune!”
“And they're heading west!” Trounce declared.
“How do you know that?” Burton asked.
“Mr. Spencer saw them!” Swinburne revealed.
Burton turned to the vagrant. “Explain!”
“There were one of ’em whoppin’ great pantechnicons parked here, Boss. One of the ones what's drawn by the jumbo dray horses. I didn't see nothin’ goin’ on, but it galloped off at a rare old pace just a few moments afore you arrived.”
“We heard it!” Burton confirmed.
“And it passed us on Orange Street!” Trounce said. “Heaven knows where it is now. We'll never catch up with it!”
“Are you joking?” Burton cried. “How can we miss a horse that size? It's a veritable mountain!”
“True, but a fast-moving one that might have headed off in any direction by now!”
The king's agent turned suddenly and started to race away along Mildew Street.
“Follow me!”
“What? Hey! Captain Burton!” the detective inspector shouted after the retreating figure. “Damn it! Come on, Bhatti!”
The two policemen took off after the king's agent. Swinburne followed, and behind him came Spencer, who'd decided to stick with the group in the hope that another thruppence might be forthcoming.
They dashed into Orange Street, and Trounce hadn't gone far before he spotted Burton ahead, hammering on a door and bellowing, “Open up in the name of the king!”
The detective inspector recognised the building. He'd checked it just a few minutes before: SPARTA, the automated animal training centre.
In a flash, he realised what Burton was up to.
“This is the police!” he hollered officiously. “Open the door!”
He heard a bolt being drawn back.
Swinburne and Spencer arrived, panting.
The portal opened slightly and an eye was put to the crack.
“I was asleep!” a female voice protested.
“Madam, I'm Detective Inspector William Trounce of Scotland Yard. These are my associates and we need your help!”
The door opened wider, revealing a young woman clad in dressing gown, nightcap, and slippers. Her face was strong, oval-shaped, brown-eyed.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you any trained swans on the premises?” Burton asked brusquely.
“Yes. No. That is to say, not fully but six are close enough. Trained, I mean.”
“Then I'm afraid we must commandeer four of them.”
“Five,” Spencer corrected.
The woman looked astonished, her eyes flicking from Burton to Trounce and back again.
“Please, ma'am,” Trounce said in a softer tone. “This is an emergency. You will be compensated.”
She stepped back. “You'd better come in. My name is Mayson, Isabella Mayson.”
They entered.
Miss Mayson lit an oil lamp and held it up.
“Merciful heavens! What happened to you!” she gasped upon noticing Burton's mud-encrusted clothing.
“Would you mind if I explained later, Miss Mayson? There really isn't any time to spare.”
“Very well. This way, please.” She lifted an umbrella from a stand and led them along the passage. “I'm afraid you'll have to pass the parakeets to get to the swans.”
Bhatti grinned and said, “We policemen are used to a little abuse. I take it they've not found a solution to the problem yet?”
“Through this room, gentlemen. The cages are beyond. No, Constable-um-?”
“Bhatti, Miss.”
“No, Constable Bhatti, they haven't. Wait a moment.”
She stopped at a door, fiddled with a key ring, located the appropriate key, and fitted it into the lock.
“Brace yourselves,” she advised, with a wry smile.
She opened the door and they all stepped through.
Insults exploded from the stacked cages encircling the room: “Piss-guzzlers! Cheese-brains! Stench-makers! Cross-eyed baboons! Drooling fumblers! Flush-faced sots! Blubberous flab-guts! Witless remnants! Boneheaded contortionists! Sheep-tickling louts! Maggotous duffers! Ugly buffoons! Slime-lickers!”
It was a deafening roar, and it didn't let up for a moment as they traversed the long chamber toward the door at its far end.
“I'm sorry!” Miss Mayson shouted at the top of her voice. “Take it on the chin!”
Swinburne giggled.
Messenger parakeets had been one of the first practical applications of the Eugenicists’ science to be adopted by the British public. A person only had to visit a post office to give one of their birds a message, name, and address, and the parakeet would fly off to deliver the communication. No one but the Eugenicists knew how the colourful little creatures found the addresses, but they always did.
There was one problem.
The parakeets cursed and insulted everyone they encountered. Invariably, messages were liberally peppered with expletives not put there by the sender. Nevertheless, the system proved popular, especially as some of the birds displayed a rather amusing talent for creating totally meaningless words that, nevertheless, sounded insulting. These “new insults” were all the rage at Society events. Swinburne himself had recently been called a “blibbering chub-fluffer” by a parakeet delivering an invitation to a poetry reading at Lord Haverleigh's. He'd laughed about it for days. You are cordially invited-you blibbering chub-fluffer-to an evening of stinking poetry and abysmal piss wine -