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?”
I t was the first Monday of April, 1862. Five weeks after the death of Sir Charles Babbage.
A hiss, a clatter, and a sound like a large bung being pulled from a jar announced the arrival of a canister in the device on Sir Richard Francis Burton's desk.
Fidget raised his head from the hearthrug, barked, whimpered, then went back to sleep.
The maid, fifteen-year-old Elsie Carpenter, put down her broom, left the study, ran up the stairs, past the bedrooms, up the next staircase, and knocked on the library door.
Exotic music was coming from the room beyond.
“Come!” a voice called.
She entered and curtseyed.
Burton, wrapped in his jubbah -the loose robe he'd worn during his famed pilgrimage to Mecca-sat cross- legged on the floor amid a pile of books. He had a turban wound around his head and was smoking a hookah. The ends of his slippers curled to points.
He'd shaved off his forked beard some days ago and now sported long, exotic mustachios, which drooped to either side of his mouth. The new style made him appear younger and, in Elsie's opinion, rather more dashing.
There was another man in the library, squatting in a corner, who was a good deal less prepossessing than her master. Elderly, brown, and skinny, he wore a voluminous white and yellow striped robe and a tall fez. He was playing a nay -the long Arabian flute-the tones of which were hauntingly liquid and melodic.
Burton nodded at the man, who responded by laying down his instrument.
“Thank you, al-Masloub. Your talent shines ever more brightly as the years pass. Take what you need from the sideboard, and blessings be upon you.”
The old man stood, bowed, and murmured: “ Barak Allahu feekem. ”
He moved to a heavy piece of furniture to the right of the door and opened the small, intricately carved wooden box that stood upon it. From this he extracted a few coins, before silently slipping past Elsie and out of the room.
“What is it, Miss Elsie?” Burton asked.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, curtseying for a second time. “Sorry to dis-disperupt your music, but a message just arrived in the thingamajig.”
“Thank you. And you mean disrupt.”
“That's right, sir. Disperupt.”
The maid bobbed again, backed out of the room, ran down the stairs, retrieved her broom, and was out of the study before Burton got there. She descended to the basement and entered the kitchen.
“All swept clean as a whistle, ma'am,” she told Mrs. Angell.
“Did you dust the bookshelves?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And the mantelpiece?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And that big old African spear?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And did you polish the swords?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And beat the cushions?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And what about the doorknobs?”
“You can see your face in 'em, ma'am.”
“Good girl. Take a piece of fruitcake from the tin and have a rest. You've earned it.”
“Thank you, ma'am.”
