Spencer stared at his companion. “Was that a joke?”
“There's no time for larking about, man! Richard may be in dire peril!”
“Um. Yus, well, er-the basset hound won't jump off, will he?”
“No. Fidget has flown with Richard before. He positively delights in the experience.”
Swinburne went to the back of Spencer's machine and started the engine, then crossed to his own and did the same. He clambered into the leather armchair and buckled himself in. After fitting a pair of goggles over his eyes, he gripped the steering rods and pushed forward on the footplate.
Above his head, six wings unfolded as the flight shaft began to revolve. They snapped out horizontally, turned slowly, picked up speed, and vanished into a blurry circle. The engine coughed and roared and steam surged out from the exhaust funnel, flattening against the ground as the rotors blew it down and away.
The machine's runners scraped forward a couple of feet then lifted. Swinburne yanked back the middle lever and shot vertically into the air.
He rose until he was high above the smoke-swathed city. Above him, the stars twinkled. Below him, fires flickered.
The riot seemed to have confined itself to the centre of London, and had been concentrated, in particular, around Soho and the West End.
Far off to the east, the Cauldron-the terrible East End-showed no signs of disturbances.
“But, then, why should it?” Swinburne said to himself. “You'll not find a single representative of High Society for them to rail against in that part of town. By crikey, though, imagine if that sleeping dragon awoke!”
Spencer shot up past him, slowed his vehicle, and sank back down until he was hovering level with the poet.
Swinburne gave him a thumbs-up, and guided his craft toward the Clerkenwell district.
Their flight was short and uneventful, though they saw many police fliers skimming low over the rooftops.
When they reached Coram's Fields, they reduced altitude and steered their machines through the drifting tatters of smoke from street to street until, below, they spotted a constable on his beat.
Swinburne landed near the policeman and stopped his rotorchair's engine.
“I say! Constable!”
“I shouldn't park here, sir, if I-Hallo! Here comes another one!”
Spencer's vehicle angled down onto the road, hit it with a thump, and skidded to a halt with sparks showering from its runners.
Fidget barked.
“Gents,” the policeman said as the engine noise died down, “this is no time and no night to be out and about in expensive vehicles!”
“We're on the king's business!” Swinburne proclaimed. “I'd like you to guard these chairs and have them returned to 14 Montagu Place at the first opportunity.”
The constable removed his helmet and scratched his head. “Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I don't know that you're in any position to give me orders, ‘specially ones that'll take me from my duties.”
“My good man, I am Sir Richard Francis Burton's personal assistant,” Swinburne countered haughtily. He pulled a card from his pocket and waved it in the man's face. “And Sir Richard Francis Burton is the king's agent. And the king, God bless him, is the ruler of the land. It also happens that I claim Detective Inspector Trounce and Detective Inspector Honesty of Scotland Yard as close personal friends. Then there's Commander Krishnamurthy, Constable Bhatti-”
“Stop! I surrender!” the policeman said, taking the card. He read it, handed it back, put on his helmet, saluted, and said: “Right you are, sir. My apologies. I'll see that your machines are returned in good time. How about if I have them shifted to the Yard for the night? For safekeeping?”
“Thank you. That will be most satisfactory, my man. I shall be sure to mention-Ow! Herbert! I told you to keep that little devil away from me! Goodbye, Constable. Thank you for your assistance!”
The policeman nodded, and Swinburne, Spencer, and Fidget crossed the road and approached the corner of Gallows Tree Lane.
Swinburne whispered, “If you see any Rakes, walk straight past them! Act normally.”
“That I can do,” Spencer mumbled inaudibly. “Dunno ‘bout you, though!”
They entered the dimly lit street and stopped outside number 5. The house was in darkness.
Swinburne hissed, “Keep a tight rein on the dog, Herbert. I have to squat down to speak to him and I'd rather not have my nose bitten!”
“Right ho.”
“Now then, you vicious little toerag,” Swinburne said to the basset hound, “where's your master, hey? Seek, Fidget! Seek! Where's your master? I know the air is full of ash, but I'm sure those blessed nostrils of yours can sort the wheat from the chaff. Seek!”
Fidget's deep brown eyes, which had been regarding him with disdain, slowly lost focus.
“Find your master!” Swinburne encouraged.
Fidget blinked, looked to the right, then to the left, then at Swinburne, then at Herbert Spencer.
“Wuff!”
He lowered his nose to the pavement and began to snuffle back and forth.
All of a sudden, he raised his head, bayed wildly, and set off at a terrific pace, almost yanking Spencer off his feet.
“He's got it!” Swinburne enthused, racing after the pair.
They ran out onto Gray's Inn Road, turned left, raced up to King's Cross Railway Station, then swerved left again onto the Euston Road.
“He seems mighty sure of himself!” Spencer puffed as they galloped along.
“That nose never fails!” Swinburne panted. “It saved my life last year. It's just a shame it's attached to the rest of the beast!”
At the junction with Russell Square, they encountered two constables who were grappling with a mad-eyed individual dressed in a bloodstained butcher's apron.
“What the devil do you think you're doing out and about at this time of night?” one of the policemen yelled at them.
“Government business!” Swinburne declared.
“Pull the other one, it's got bells on it!”
“Aargh!” the butcher howled. “Look at the little one! The red-haired git! He's a bloody toff! Kill ‘im! Kill ‘im!”
“Shut up,” the second policeman snapped. He grunted as the man's knee thudded into his stomach, and groaned to his companion: “Bash the blighter on the head, Bill!”
The poet, philosopher, and basset hound ran past the brawling trio and kept going.
Fidget led the two men onward until the bottom end of Regent's Park hove into view. The trail led past it and onto Marylebone Road. They had run about a mile so far.
“I never thought I'd be thankful for a riot!” Swinburne gasped.
“What do you mean, lad?”
“Isn't it obvious? Whoever's got Richard couldn't find transport! They're on foot!”
They hurried on for another mile. The road, one of the city's main highways, was empty of people but filled with rubble and wreckage. Fires still blazed and they found themselves plunging through clouds of black smoke. Many gas lamps had been vandalised, too, and lengths of the thoroughfare were pitch dark.
“Whoops!” Spencer cried as Fidget made an unexpected left turn.
“Bishop's Bridge Road,” Swinburne noted.
Just ahead of them, the lights of Paddington Railway Station flared out from within an enormous cloud of white steam. Fidget plunged straight into it.
The terminal was a scene of out-and-out chaos. A locomotive had derailed while entering the station, ploughing into one of the platforms. It was lying on its side with its boiler split open, vapour shooting out of the ripped metal.
Policemen and station workers milled about, and the moment Swinburne and Spencer stepped into the
