The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats (32 page)

If we turn traitor and fight against our own government.

“If it comes to it,” Trounce finished.

“Yes.”

“I'll start with Spearing, Slaughter, and Honesty. Between them, the principal ranks are covered. By the time I'm finished, we'll have a decent body of men standing by, that I guarantee.”

“Good man.”

To Swinburne, Burton said, “Algy, we've identified Young England as an attack upon the middling classes. What we haven't yet established is how the labouring majority view Disraeli's actions. I want you to speak with Mr. Grub. Don't reveal your identity. I think him more liable to speak freely with Slippery Ned Beesley, a person he'll undoubtedly consider an equal.”

“Or an inferior,” Swinburne interjected.

“Quite so. Pick his brains. Take Bram with you. After that, the two of you should move around the street markets, the wharfs, and the rookeries. Blend in and take a measure of public opinion. Let's find out where the people stand.”

“And you, Count Palladino?” Gooch asked, with a tinge of humour.

Burton gave a grim smile, took a revolver from a bench, checked that its chamber was full, and pocketed it. “I intend to sniff out some missing aristocrats.”

A SOPHISTICATED MECHANISM WAXES PHILOSOPHICAL AND CAPTIVES ARE TAKEN

GREEN PARK CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

D
O NOT SCALE THE FENCE.
T
RESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

Whenever London was simmering in its own gravy, the roads became impossible for the average vehicle owner to navigate. Those that attempted it tended to meet each other rather too abruptly, such encounters invariably being characterised by the sound of crunching metal, hissing steam, and passionately delivered language of a particularly colourful variety.

Only cab drivers and criminals enjoyed the fog. For cabbies, the thinned traffic came as a blessing, and the pall proved no inconvenience at all, since, as Montague Penniforth was again demonstrating, these men had imprinted permanently upon their minds a tremendously detailed map of the city whilst also possessing an uncannily accurate sense of distance and direction.

Thus it was that “Count Palladino” was transported without incident or delay from Norwood to the British Library and, from there, a little later, to Duchess Street, off Portland Place.

The landau trundled away. Penniforth would wait near Trafalgar Square.

Burton stood on the pavement outside the grandiose house and peered back the way he'd come, wondering whether the cab had been followed. He thought it very unlikely. Despite that the summer sun was somewhere overhead, making the upper layers of fog glow, visibility was terrible. He doubted anyone could have picked up his trail and was as certain as he could be that the Norwood hideaway remained a secret and wasn't being watched. In the dim grey light, through suspended particles of ash and slowly rolling cloud, he saw an old woman smoking a pipe and pushing a wheelbarrow, a stray dog running across the road with a dead rat hanging from its mouth, and a street crab—an automated cleaning machine—lumbering along with steam pluming from its funnels.

He faced the building. Number two. It was just past four o'clock in the afternoon, but the ground floor rooms were brightly lit.

One of them, he hoped, was occupied by the owner.

Of the men on Gladstone's list, Burton had, at the library, looked into the background of only three, they being Henry Thomas Hope, Lord John Manners, and Alexander Baillie-Cochrane; the surviving members—along with Disraeli—of the original Young England movement. Of them, Hope had immediately excited Burton's interest, for the records had revealed his mother to be the Honourable Louisa de la Poer Beresford, who was a cousin of Henry Beresford, the third Marquess of Waterford. Before his death, the marquess had been very much involved in the Spring Heeled Jack affair, albeit in a different version of history. Time, the explorer had learned, was filled with meaningful patterns, echoes, and synchronous occurrences. When recognised, such correspondences should not be ignored. The family connection was, to Burton, akin to a signpost bearing the legend
START HERE!
He'd abandoned further research and come straight to Hope's residence.

Now, moving forward, he mounted the five front steps, paused at the door, and yanked the bellpull. After half a minute, he heard bolts being pulled back. The door opened, and an elderly footman, with his chin tilted upward, looked down his long pointed nose and creaked, “Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?”

“Perhaps so,” Burton replied, adopting the traces of an Italian accent. “I wish to see Mr. Hope. Might he spare me a few minutes? I am Count Palladino of Brindisi.”

“And the nature of your business, sir?”

“A social visit. You are—?”

“Bellamy, sir. May I ask whether you are expected?”

“I must confess that I am not.”

“I see.” Bellamy blinked disapprovingly then stepped back and gestured to his left. “If you wouldn't mind waiting in the parlour, I shall enquire as to the master's availability.”

“I'm much obliged.”

Burton entered the house and walked into the indicated room. It was of a modest size and very cluttered with pictures, ornaments, and knickknacks. Choosing not to sit, he crossed to the unlit fireplace, stood between the two armchairs arranged around it, and waited, facing the chamber with his hands held behind his back. He was amused to see on a table, among various magazines, an issue of
The Baker Street Detective
. Bram Stoker, it appeared, was not the only enthusiast of the adventures of Macallister Fogg.

Five minutes passed, each of them measured by a loudly ticking clock on the mantelpiece.

The door finally opened.

A clockwork man strode in. It was very highly polished and had a coat of arms engraved upon its chest plate.

Extending a hand, it said, “Count Palladino, I understand? Good day to you, sir. I am Flywheel, Mr. Hope's private secretary. May I enquire as to the reason for your visit?”

Burton hesitated—he'd never been offered a handshake by a brass man before—then clasped the metal digits and, as he released them, said in a polite tone, “I don't mean to intrude upon your master's privacy nor impose upon his valuable time. I happened to be passing this way and suddenly recalled that my friend, Lord Manners, mentioned Mr. Hope to me some little time ago. I thought I might introduce myself.”

“Lord Manners? I see. Mentioned him in relation to what, if I might ask?”

The contraption spoke in such a natural fashion that, for a moment, Burton forgot to reply. He was amazed by the casual sentence construction, the smoothly articulated words, and the almost human-sounding modulations. This machine was obviously far more advanced than any he'd so far encountered.

“We were discussing Young England, both in its earlier incarnation and in its present. He also brought it to my attention that Mr. Hope is related to the de la Poer Beresford family.”

Flywheel was silent for nearly thirty seconds and stood so motionless that Burton began to wonder whether it had wound down. Then it said, “Your English is extremely good, Count Palladino.”

“Thank you. I was educated at Oxford.”

“That explains it. My master is a Cambridge man. I regret to inform you that he is indisposed. He has taken to his bed with a case of influenza and can't possibly receive you at present.”

“Ah. I'm sorry to hear that. He's asleep then?”

“He's reading. However, I'm authorised to speak on his behalf and am privy to all of his affairs. If you have any questions, I can probably answer them. Please sit. Would you care for a cigar? There's a box on the table, there. Havanas. Please help yourself. You are interested in the Beresfords? May I ask why?”

Burton sat and took one of the Havanas. He lit it, drew on it, and watched through the exhaled smoke as, to his utter astonishment, Flywheel settled in the opposite chair, crossed one metal leg over the other, and leaned back with its hands resting in its lap.

Acting on impulse, he asked, “Have you a Mark Three babbage?”

“A Mark Four.”

“I didn't know there was a fourth model. When was it developed?”

“Mine was activated on the nineteenth of October last year, so prior to that date, but I don't know precisely when. The Beresfords?”

Burton gave a casual wave of a hand. “Oh, nothing. Just that I've heard that the third Marquess of Waterford was something of a character.”

“To put it mildly. Mr. Hope has a very low opinion of that particular relative. The man was, I have heard him say, a cad of the first order, and one whose passing he doesn't regret one iota.”

“Is that so? I wonder if having such an individual in the family encouraged Mr. Hope's one time support for the concept of
noblesse oblige
, as was promoted by the original Young England.”

“I couldn't say, sir.”

“It's unusual, isn't it?”

“To be related to a disreputable man?”

“To reverse one's opinion so completely. To make the current-day Young England the polar opposite of its predecessor.”

Burton watched as, visible through the topmost opening in Flywheel's face, the machine's tiny cogs revolved.

“My good Count,” the clockwork man said, “is it not logical to adjust one's opinion in line with new information as it comes to light?”

“I should say so, yes. To what information do you refer, in this instance?”

“To Darwin's theory of natural selection, which makes it plain—does it not?—that in supporting its weaker members, a species does itself a disservice.”

Darwin! As was also invoked by Disraeli in a very similar manner!

“I don't think that's an interpretation Mr. Darwin would support. Besides which, by what criteria is weakness measured?”

“Need it be measured at all? Surely it is apparent that human society functions to allow the strong to rise to power while those of lesser ability remain in positions of servitude.”

Burton flicked cigar ash into the hearth. He uttered a little grunt of dissent. “I perceive two problems with that argument. Firstly, our—by which I mean the empire's—current form of society is not the only system available to the human species. The Africans and Orientals, for example, have very different conventions to our own. We might say that ours, which is termed by some a capitalist democracy, allows for a certain sort of person to rise through its ranks, but that person's advancement is due to his or her abilities existing within an environment conducive to them. The same person, if placed in Abyssinia or Japan, might fail utterly. Which brings me to my second point: Darwin makes it plain that any quality whatsoever can be counted a strength if it is advantageous in a particular circumstance. Compassion is a considerable handicap in a financial institution but a great gift in a medical one. Context is everything.”

“Quite so,” Flywheel answered. “But our context is what it is. The new Young England applies to it.”

“Then you feel it apposite to work within a system that favours a few over the very many than to apply yourself to improving the system so that more may prosper?”

“I, Count Palladino? I am but a machine.”

“My apologies. I refer, of course, to Mr. Hope's stance on the matter.”

“I believe my employer would ask you whether it is a kindness or a cruelty to instil into a man, who exists on a lower rung of society, the conception that the ladder is scalable. Surely, if he believes his circumstances are prescribed, then he will labour to make the most of everything they have to offer. If, however, he perceives that an ascent is possible, he will overlook the opportunities that exist within the bounds of his own particular position and will instead strive to step up to the next. Surely, in most cases, this can only lead to thwarted desire and a seething frustration. Is it not the case that a man who embarks on a journey while considering the stars is liable to fall into the first hole that comes along?”