The Curious Case Of The Clockwork Man Read Online Free PDF

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