Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Mark Hodder is the author of The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack--winner of the Philip K. Dick Award 2010--and its sequel, The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man. He's the creator and caretaker of the Blakiana website (http://www.sextonblake.co.uk), which he designed to celebrate, record, and revive Sexton Blake, the most written-about fictional detective in English publishing history. A former BBC writer, editor, journalist, and Web producer, Mark has worked in all the new and traditional medias and was based in London for most of his working life until 2008, when he relocated to Valencia in Spain to de-stress and write novels. He has a degree in cultural studies and loves British history (1850 to 1950, in particular), good food, cutting-edge gadgets, cult TV (ITC forever!), Tom Waits, and a vast assortment of oddities.

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THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE CLOCKWORK MAN

Prometheus Books

Chapter One

A handsome reward will be given to any person who can furnish such information as will discover the fate of Roger Charles Tichborne. He sailed from Rio de Janeiro on the 20th of April 1854 in the ship La Bella, and has never been heard of since, but a report reached England to the effect that a portion of the crew and passengers of a vessel of that name was picked up by a vessel bound to Australia, Melbourne it is believed. It is not known whether the said Roger Charles Tichborne was among the drowned or saved. He would at the present time be about thirty-two years of age, is of a delicate constitution, rather tall, with very light-brown hair, and blue eyes. Mr. Tichborne is the son of Sir James Tichborne, now deceased, and is heir to all his estates. —Advertisement, newspapers worldwide, 1861

Sir Richard Francis Burton was dead.

He was lying on his back in the lobby of the Royal Geographical Society, sprawled at the bottom of the grand staircase with a diminutive red-haired poet slumped across his chest.

Algernon Charles Swinburne, tears streaming down his cheeks, his senses befuddled with alcohol, quickly composed an elegy. It was, after all, best to strike while the iron was hot.

He raised his head, his hair fiery in the flickering gas light, and, in his high-pitched voice, proclaimed:

      Wouldst thou not know whom England, whom the world,
      Mourns? For the world whose wildest ways he trod,
      And smiled their dangers down that coiled and curled
      Against him, knows him now less man than god.

He hiccupped.

Beneath his hand, in Burton's jacket, he felt a flask-shaped lump. Surreptitiously, he began to wiggle his fingers into the pocket.

"Our demigod of daring, keenest-eyed," he continued, with a sniff. "To read and deepest—"

"Atrocious!" a voice thundered from the top of the stairs.

Swinburne looked up.

Sir Roderick Murchison stood imperiously on the landing.

"Keep your hands to yourself, Algy," came a whisper.

Swinburne looked down.

Burton's eyes were open.

"Atrocious behaviour!" Murchison boomed again.

The president of the Royal Geographical Society descended with dignity and poise. His back was ramrod straight. His bald head was shining. He passed portraits of the great explorers: James Cook, Sir Walter Raleigh, John Franklin, Sir Francis Drake—this latter painting was hanging askew, having been struck by Burton's passing foot—William Hovell, Mungo Park, and others.

"I'll not brook such conduct, Burton! This is a respectable scientific establishment, not a confounded East End tavern!"

Swinburne fell back as his friend, the former soldier, explorer, and spy— the linguist, scholar, author, swordsman, geographer, and king's agent— staggered to his feet and stood swaying, glowering at Murchison, his onetime sponsor.

"Alive, then?" the poet muttered, gazing bemusedly at his friend.

At five foot eleven, Burton appeared taller, due to the breadth of his shoulders, depth of his chest, and slim athletic build. As inebriated as he was, he radiated power. His eyes were black and mesmeric, his cheekbones prominent, his mouth set aggressively. He had short black hair, which he wore swept backward, and a fierce mustache and beard, forked and devilish. A deep scar disfigured his left cheek, tugging slightly at his bottom eyelid, and there was a smaller one on the right, each marking the path of a Somali spear that had been thrust through his face during a disastrous expedition to Berbera.

"You're a damnable drunkard!" Murchison barked as he reached the bottom step. His narrow features suddenly softened. "Are you hurt?"

Burton snarled his response: "It'll take more than a tumble down the bloody stairs to break me!"

Swinburne scrambled up from the floor. He was tiny, just five foot two, and slope-shouldered. His head, perched on such a diminutive body, and with its mop of carroty hair, seemed perfectly enormous. He had pale-green eyes and was clean shaven. He appeared much younger than his twenty-four years.

"Confound it," he squeaked. "Now I'll have to use the elegy for somebody else. Who died recently? Anyone noteworthy? Did you like it, Richard? The bit about 'For the world whose wildest ways he trod' was especially appropriate, I thought."

"Be quiet, Swinburne!" Murchison snapped. "Burton, I'm not trying to break you, if that's what you're implying. Henry Stanley was better financed to settle the Nile question than you. I had little choice but to add the Society's backing to that which he received from his newspaper."

"And now he's disappeared!" Burton growled. "How many flying machines have to vanish over Africa's Lake Regions before you realise that the only way in is on foot?"

"I'm well aware of the problem, sir, and I'll have you know that I warned Stanley. It was his newspaper that insisted he take rotorchairs!"

"Pah! I know the area better than any man in the entire British Empire, but you saw fit to send a damn fool journalist. Who next, Murchison? Perhaps a dance troupe from the music halls?"

Sir Roderick stiffened. He crossed his arms over his chest and replied, icily: "Samuel Baker wants to mount a rescue mission, as does John Petherick, but whomever I send, it shan't be you, of that you can be certain. Your days as a geographer are over. It appears, however, that your days as a drinker are not!"

Burton clenched his teeth, tugged at his jacket, took a deep breath, paused, sighed it out, and all of a sudden the fight left him. He said, in a subdued tone: "Sam and John are good men. Accomplished. They know how to handle the natives. My apologies, Sir Roderick, I find it difficult to let go. I still think of the Nile question as mine to answer, though, in truth, I have a new and entirely different role to play now."

"Ah, yes. I heard a rumour that Palmerston has employed you. Is it true?"

Burton nodded. "It is."

"As what?"

"In truth, it's hard to say. I'm titled the 'king's agent.' It's something of an investigative role."

"Then I would think you're well suited to it."

"Perhaps. But I still take an interest in—well—sir, if you hear anything—"

"I'll get word to you," Murchison interrupted curtly. "Now go. Get some coffee. Sober up. Have some self-respect, man!"

The president turned and stamped back up the stairs, straightening Drake's portrait as he passed it.

A valet fetched Burton and Swinburne their coats, hats, and canes, and the two men walked unsteadily across the lobby and out through the double doors.

The evening was dark and damp, glistening with reflections after the day's showers. A chill wind tugged at their clothes.

"Coffee at the Venetia Hotel?" Burton suggested, buttoning his black overcoat.

"Or another brandy and a bit of slap and tickle?" Swinburne countered. "Verbena Lodge isn't far from here."

"Verbena Lodge?"

"It's a house of ill repute where the birchings are—"

"Coffee!" Burton said.

They walked along Whitehall Place and turned right into...