lips.
He felt weak and ill. Despite the cold weather, beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead.
The lantern went out.
Shifting to better secure himself, he gave the device a twist. It spluttered back into life and he lowered it past his knee, revealing a brick walkway not far below. A river flowed beside it, the brown surface heaving and frothing as it sped past.
Burton descended with water pouring around him from the pit above. He stepped off the ladder and flexed his arm, winced, then picked up his cane and flashed the light around, finding himself in a small section of newly built brick-lined tunnel. Farther down in both directions, it gave way to a soft-walled, insecure-looking passage which, for as far as he could see-which wasn't very far-had been shored up with timber.
The walkway ran alongside the river and disappeared into the darkness. On it, three sets of muddy oval- shaped footprints trailed back and forth.
He followed them.
The course of the river was by no means straight but the explorer felt certain that it remained more or less beneath Saint Martin's on its way to the Thames.
Moments later, he came to a hole cut into the wall on his left. Big lumps of stone were scattered around it and a pile of rubble blocked the path beyond. A glance at the ground assured him that the three mechanical men had passed this way, so he entered and stepped through a short stretch of roughly cut tunnel.
It broke through into the unlit and damp basement of a building, empty but for broken pieces of packing crates, a rusty iron bedstead, and an old chest of drawers. Smeared mud cut a channel across the dusty floor to an open door and up the stairs beyond.
Treading softly, the king's agent ascended. There was another door at the top of the stairs, which he opened carefully. His lantern illuminated what appeared to be a workshop. There was a large safe in the corner. Its door had been wrenched off and lay, warped out of shape, on the floor nearby. The safe was empty.
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.
