“To-to the survival of the British Empire!”
Later that same day, Burton was standing by one of his study windows smoking a Manila cheroot, filling the room with its pungent scent and staring sightlessly at the street below, when a messenger parakeet landed on the sill. Raising the window, he received: “Message from that dung-squeezer, Detective Inspector Trounce. Message begins. Word has reached me that you're back on your feet, you dirty shunt-knobbler. I'll call round at eight this evening. Message ends.”
Burton chuckled. Dirty shunt-knobbler. He must tell Algy that one.
He did, later, when Swinburne visited, and the poet roared with laughter, which was cut short when Fidget, Burton's basset hound, bit his ankle.
“Yow! Damn and blast the confounded dog! Why does he always do that?” he screeched.
“It's just his way of showing affection.”
“Can't you train him to be a little less expressive?”
They sat and chatted, relaxing in each other's company, enjoying their easy though unlikely friendship. Perhaps no stranger pair could be found in the whole of London than the brutal-faced, hard-bitten explorer and the delicate, rather effeminate-looking poet. Yet there was an intellectual-and perhaps spiritual-bond between them, which had begun with a shared love for the work of the Portuguese poet Camoens; had been sustained by a mutual need to know where their own limits lay-if, indeed, they had any; and was now strengthened by the challenges and dangers they faced together in the service of the king.
On the dot of eight, there came a hammering at the front door, followed by footsteps on the stairs and a tapping at the study door.
“Come!” Burton called.
The portal swung open and Mrs. Angell crossed the threshold. She stood nervously wrapping her hands in her pinafore.
“Detective Inspector T-Trounce and a young con-constable to see you, sir,” she stammered. “And-and-goodness gracious me!”
“Mrs. Angell? Are you quite all right?”
Trounce stepped into the room behind her. Constable Bhatti followed.
“Hallo, Captain! Hallo, Swinburne!” the Scotland Yard man cried cheerfully. “Mrs. Angell, my dear woman, don't worry yourself! I promise you, it's absolutely harmless!”
“B-but-bless my soul!” the old dame stuttered. She threw up her hands and bustled out of the room.
“What's harmless?” Burton asked.
“You look like your old self again!” Trounce exclaimed, ignoring the question. “But never mind! Worse things happen at sea!”
Swinburne gave a screech of laughter.
“Come in, gentlemen; help yourself to a drink and cigar,” Burton invited, indicating the decanter and the cigar box.
They did so, pulled over a couple of armchairs, and settled around the fireplace with the king's agent and the poet. Fidget sprawled on the hearthrug at their feet.
“We have a gift for you, Captain,” Trounce declared with a mischievous twinkle.
“Really? Why?”
“Oh, for services rendered and whatnot! Besides, I noticed that your shoes are never polished, your cuffs are frayed, and your collars need starching!”
“Ever the detective. What on earth has my personal grooming got to do with anything?”
“I'm suggesting, Captain Burton, that you're in dire need of a gentleman's gentleman-a valet!”
“I have a housekeeper and a maid. Any more staff and I'll be managing a ‘household!’”
“Only those that need managing,” Trounce said. He winked at Bhatti.
The young constable smiled and called: “Enter!”
A figure of gleaming brass walked in, closed the door, and stood, whirring softly.
Fidget yelped and dived behind a chair.
“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “Is that the clockwork man of Trafalgar Square?”
“The very same!” Trounce answered. “Constable Bhatti has been studying him for the past three weeks.”
“We found a key that fitted him in the priory,” the constable added. “Then it was just a matter of experimentation. As I suspected, the little switches at the front of the babbage dictate his behaviour. He can be rendered more aggressive, subservient, independent; you can set him to respond to any voice, specific voices, or just your own. What do think, Captain Burton?”
Burton looked at each of his guests, then turned his gaze to the brass man.
“Frankly, gentlemen,” he said, “I'm at a complete loss. You mean me to keep this mechanism as a valet?”
“Yes,” Trounce said. “It will do whatever you tell it!”
Bhatti nodded and added: “It has enough independence to perform tasks without needing to be told all the time. For example, if you order it to ensure that your shoes are polished by six o'clock each morning, then it will never need telling again.”
“I wish I could say the same about my missus!” Trounce muttered.
“Wait, Captain!” Bhatti said, jumping up. He strode to the brass man and stood in front of it. “Everybody remain silent, please. Captain Burton, would you say a few words when I nod at you?”
“Words? What words?”
“Any! It doesn't matter!”
The constable took a small screwdriver from his pocket, turned to the clockwork figure, unscrewed the small porthole in its “forehead,” and used the tool to click down one of the small switches inside.
“The next voice you hear,” he told the device, “will be the only voice you obey unless it instructs you otherwise.”
He turned and nodded to Burton.
Rather self-consciously, the famous explorer cleared his throat: “I-er-I am Richard Burton and, apparently, you are now my valet.”
The brass man turned its head slightly until it appeared to be looking straight at Burton.
It saluted.
“That's its way of acknowledging your command,” said Bhatti. He reached into the porthole and flipped the switch back, then closed the little glass door and started to screw it into place.
“One moment, Constable!” Burton interrupted. “If you are all agreeable, I'd like the device set to accept commands from everyone present, and Mrs. Angell, too.”
“You're sure?” Trounce asked.
Burton nodded and pulled a cord that hung beside the fireplace. It rang a bell in the basement, summoning the housekeeper.
When she arrived, he told her about the new valet, and Bhatti went through the process again with her, with Trounce, and with Swinburne.
Mrs. Angell left the study, a bewildered expression on her face, while Bhatti joined the others around the fireplace and lit a pipe. He watched, smiling, as Burton moved over to the mechanism, looked it up and down, tapped its chest, and examined the little cogs that revolved in its head.
“Useful!” the king's agent muttered. “Very useful! Might I train it as a fencing partner?”
“Certainly!” Bhatti answered. “Though you'll probably find it too fast an opponent!”
Burton raised his eyebrows.
“Incidentally,” the constable added, “it'll need winding once a day, and, if I may suggest, you should name it. A name will make it easier to issue orders.”
“Ah, yes, I see what you mean.”
Burton stood in front of his new valet and addressed it: “Do you recognise my voice?”
The brass man saluted.
“Your name is-Admiral Lord Nelson!”
Another salute.
Burton's guests laughed.
“Bravo!” Swinburne cheered.
The king's agent turned to the policemen. “Thank you, Detective Inspector Trounce, Constable Bhatti-it's a magnificent gift! And now I propose that we bring the case of the clockwork man of Trafalgar Square to a close by giving my valet his first order.”
Trounce nodded encouragement.
“Admiral Nelson!” Sir Richard Francis Burton commanded. “Serve the drinks!”
The drinks were duly served.
Later that night, the king's agent found himself unable to sleep. A question was bothering him. He offered it to the darkness: “Whatever became of the genuine Choir Stones?”