by Mark Hodder
“Yus, but it's just one and it's the Tichborne Claimant, Boss, grown fatter than a whale! I tells you, if'n you go into the Strand, the wraiths will confuse your mind, the dead Rakes will beat you senseless, an’ the Claimant will bloomin’ well eat you!”
“Eat you?”
“Yus. He's got a taste for human flesh-an’ those what are riotin’ are followin’ his lead!”
“I saw as much. What the hell is happening, Herbert?”
“Dunno, Boss, but it ain't nuthin’ good. An’ to think back in March we thought it were just a simple diamond robbery!”
“I wonder if Algy has discovered anything useful from that Doyle fellow. Do you think I can get into the tavern without having the living daylights kicked out of me?”
“If you muss yourself up a bit more and go in your shirtsleeves, you'll pass muster, what with your face all sooty, as it is.”
Burton slipped out of his jacket and waistcoat, handed them to the vagrant, and looked ruefully at his one-armed shirt.
“I suppose this will be regarded as a qualification,” he muttered. “At least I look like I've been in a scrap!”
“Yus. An’ if you don't mind me a-sayin’ so, you have the face of a pugilist, too.”
“Forgive me if I don't thank you for that comment. So, do I look the part?”
“Muss up your hair a little bit more, Boss.”
Burton did so.
“Perfect.”
“Wait here, Herbert. I hope this won't take too long. It depends how drunk my wayward assistant is.”
He crossed the street, paused outside the tavern, pushed the door open, and entered.
The low-ceilinged interior was quite literally packed to the rafters with working men and women of the very lowest order, with, no doubt, thieves, murderers, and whores mixed liberally among them. They were drunk and boisterous, and many appeared glassy-eyed with something beyond alcoholic intoxication. A few were so far gone they were practically catatonic, standing motionless amid the cacophony with slack faces and eyes rolled up into their sockets.
He pushed his way through the laughing, shouting, singing, squabbling mob, feeling that, at any moment, a knife might be thrust between his ribs or a broken bottle mashed into his face.
“To hell with soddin’ aristocrats!” someone bellowed.
A roar of approval went up and Burton joined in, so as not to stand out.
“Ari-sto-craaats-” rasped a man beside him.
“Three cheers for Sir Roger!”
Burton cheered with them.
“Up with the working man!”
“Aye!” they yelled.
“Aye!” Burton shouted.
As he shoved through what looked to be a group of poorhouse workers, they broke out in song: “When the Jury said I was not Roger,
Oh! How they made me stagger,
The pretty girls they'll always think
Of poor Roger's wagga wagga!”
A wave of maniacal laughter greeted the verse. One man's guffawing turned into a loud, incoherent wail then cut off abruptly. He stood grinning stupidly, with spittle oozing down his chin.
“Pour more booze down the silly bugger's neck,” someone called. “That'll get ’is engine runnin’ again!”
“Aye!” shouted another. “Them what's not quaffin’ will end up in a coffin!”
This was greeted with more mirth and raised glasses.
Burton registered the paradox that those who were most inebriated were apparently also the ones who retained most of their wits. It confirmed that alcohol did, indeed, go some way to counter the effect of the Tichborne emanations.
He saw Swinburne, looking every inch the guttersnipe, squashed into a corner with a hollow-eyed, bespectacled, long-bearded individual.
“Oy! Nipper!” he roared. “Get yer arse over ’ere, yer little brat!”
“You tell ’im, mister!” A dirty-faced strumpet giggled, nudging him in the side. “Put the scamp over yer knee and give ’im a bloody good spankin’-an’ after that, you can do the same to me!”
Raucous laughter erupted around him. He joined in, and bawled, “Aye! An’ the flat of me hand ain't all you'll be a-hankerin’ after, is it? I has it in mind that you'll be a-wantin’ a bloody good roger, too-an’ I don't mean his nibs Tichborne!”
A deafening cheer greeted his gibe and, under cover of the clamour, raised tankards, and gleeful scoffing, he signalled Swinburne to join him.
The poet said something to his companion, stood, and pushed his way through to Burton's side. The king's agent thumbed toward the door, mouthing, “Let's get out of here!” then grabbed his assistant by the ear and dragged him through the pub and out onto the street.
“My ear!” the poet squeaked.
“Dramatic necessity,” Burton grunted.
They crossed the road and joined Spencer.
“How are you holding up, Algy?” the explorer asked.
Swinburne rubbed his ear and said, “Fine. Fine. What about that spanking?”
“You got quite enough of that outside Verbena Lodge. What's Doyle up to?”
“Drinking, drinking, and more drinking. He can really knock it back. I'm astonished he's still standing, and, as you know, I'm a past master in such endeavours. I really am very impressed. If it came down to a challenge, I'd-”
“Stop babbling, please.”
Burton wondered whether mesmerising the poet had been such a good idea. As he'd suspected, the consequential behaviour was proving unpredictable, Swinburne's verbosity being the most obvious symptom.
“He's on his way to a seance, Richard. It's at ten o'clock at 5 Gallows Tree Lane, on the outskirts of Clerkenwell, very close to the Literary Gentlemen's Unpublishables Club. You know the place-I believe you once went there with old Monckton Milnes. If I remember rightly, you wanted to consult their copy of The Seven Perilous Postures of Love by one of your obscure-or do I mean ‘obscene’?-Arabian poets. It's the club with the supposedly secret scroll of-”
“I know! I know!” Burton interrupted.
“My hat! Do you think they chose Gallows Tree Lane because of its name? Nice and morbid for summoning spirits!”
“Be quiet a moment, Algy. I need to think.”
“Very well. I shan't say another word. My lips are-”
Burton grabbed his assistant, whirled him around, pulled him close, clapped a hand over his mouth, and held him tightly.
“Herbert, would you say Doyle is my height?”
“Yus, more or less, but thinner.”
“Reach into the left pocket of my jacket, would you?”
Spencer, who had Burton's jacket draped over his arm, did as directed and pulled out the brown wig and false beard the king's agent had worn to Bedlam.
“A decent match, do you think?”
“I'd say so, Boss. P'raps his is a touch lighter in colour, but not by much.”
“Mmmph!” Swinburne added.
“Good. When Doyle comes out of that tavern, we're going to jump on him and exchange his jacket and hat for mine. Then I want you and Algy to drag him back to Montagu Place. Keep him there and under no circumstances let him go. Is that understood?”
“To the hilt.”
“Question him. He's intoxicated, so maybe he'll blab something of interest. Ask him about fairies.”
Swinburne squirmed wildly and managed to wriggle out of his grasp. The poet hopped up and down excitedly.
“Fairies? Fairies?” he squealed. “Fairies? What's his pet obsession got to do with anything?”
“Just ask him, Algy. See what he says.”
Spencer eyed Swinburne. “If he can get a word in edgeways.”
“Richard! Surely you don't intend to-”
“Yes, Algy. I'm going to that seance in the guise of Charles Altamont Doyle.”
S ir Richard Francis Burton was a master of disguise, but even he couldn't masquerade as another man so convincingly that his subject's friends and acquaintances would be fooled.
He s
tood on the doorstep of 5 Gallows Tree Lane, an approximation of Charles Doyle. The foppish jacket he wore was too tight, and while makeup from his pocket kit had hidden his scars and given his eyes and cheeks the appropriately gaunt cast of an addict, his pupils were almost black, whereas Doyle's were a pale and watery blue.
He was, therefore, feeling rather nervous when he knocked on the door.
It was dark now and the streets were quiet. The throbbing of a police rotorship pulsed through the air from afar.
The door opened and a man stood silhouetted by gaslight.
“Yes?”
“Am I late?”
“Yes. We've been waiting.”
“The riot-”
“I know. Come in. Leave your hat and cane on the stand.”
Burton stepped inside.
“Put this on. No names. You know the rules.”
Burton was handed a black crepe mask. He placed it over his eyes, knotting the ribbons behind his head. Inwardly, he sighed with relief. Now his disguise was more secure.
The man closed the door and turned, revealing that he, too, was masked.
“Follow me.”
The king's agent was led through a reception room and into a large parlour. A dense stratum of blue tobacco smoke floated just above eye level. There was a big round table in the middle of the room with seven chairs arranged around it. Two men stood by a bureau, three by a fireplace. All were dressed in the Rakish manner. All wore masks. They turned as he entered.
“Gentlemen, we can start,” the man who'd answered the door announced. “Please lay your drinks aside, extinguish your cigars, and take your places at the table.”
Each man did as directed, while the host turned down the gas lamps until the room was in near darkness. His guests moved to the chairs, seeming to sit in preselected positions. Burton hung back until it became clear where he should place himself. He sat.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the ticking of a grandfather clock.
“I shall begin this meeting as I have begun every meeting,” the host intoned, adopting a low and rhythmic manner of speech, as if beginning a ritual, “with a statement of purpose, for we are undertaking a great work. Those who would flinch from it must remind themselves that what we do, in the fullness of time, shall be for the greater good of mankind.”
“The greater good of mankind,” the gathering echoed.
Burton's jaw muscle flexed. He was going to have to anticipate these repetitions and join in.
Don't get it wrong!
“Our watchword is freedom.”
“Freedom!”
“Our object is liberation.”
“Liberation!”
“Our future is anarchy.”
“Anarchy!”
“Join hands, please.”
Burton reached out and felt his hands gripped by his neighbours.
“True freedom comes not from rights granted in the courts of law but from the complete absence of law. True freedom cannot be imposed from without but must flower from within. True freedom is not the prerogative to do something but the right to do anything. True freedom knows no bounds, no reason, no moral centre, no belief, no time, no place, no status, no god.”
“No god,” they chorused.
“Gentlemen, rules must be broken.”
“Rules must be broken.”
“Propriety must be challenged.”
“Propriety must be challenged.”
“The status quo must be unbalanced.”
“The status quo must be unbalanced.”
“Though each of us here occupies a privileged position, we must each be willing to sacrifice it that the human species may progress, for the cycle of ages turns and a time of transition is upon us.”
Burton stifled an exclamation. Again, those words!
“Each has a part to play in the great upheaval that is to come. Each part is essential to the whole. Do not waver. Do not doubt. Do not question.”
The room was suddenly heavy with a presence, sensed but not seen.
The clock stopped.
A strange tone entered the host's voice; it was as if another person-female-was beginning to force her own words through his vocal cords.
“We shall go forth this night, as we have done before. We shall carry the vibrations of change to the people. We shall guide them to true liberty.”
“True liberty!” the group chanted.
“Urk!” the host said.
Burton stared at him. The man had suddenly thrown his head back and opened his mouth. A bubbling, shifting, globular substance was rising into the air from deep within his throat-the king's agent could see the sides of the man's esophagus undulating as the matter rose up through it.
Ectoplasm!
Possessing the qualities of both a liquid and a gas, the strange material rolled and twisted upward into the cloud of tobacco smoke. Burton squinted, unsure how to interpret the scene that unfolded before him. It appeared that the layer of smoke was glowing slightly and bulging downward over the centre of the table.
The female voice now filled the room. It wasn't coming from the man any longer, but reverberated, it seemed, in the very atmosphere itself.
“Send forth your astral bodies, my sons. Undertake our great work. Walk abroad and touch the souls of the unenlightened.”
The bulge in the smoke rapidly congealed into the shape of a woman's head and shoulders, hanging upside down from the cloud. A swirling, wispy arm reached out and a vague finger touched one of the Rakes on the forehead. Burton watched in amazement as a ghostly form detached itself from the man's seated figure. It hovered behind him for a moment before blowing away on an unfelt breeze, dissolving into the gloom of the chamber.
“Go forth, apostles, and liberate the downtrodden and the oppressed.”
She had a Russian accent.
The woman's finger touched a second man and a wraith emerged from him and vanished.
She turned until she was facing the Rake sitting on Burton's left. Her eyes were jet black, glinting in the smoke like gemstones.
Lady Mabella. The murderer of Sir Alfred Tichborne.
“Travel through the astral plane, my child, and-”
She paused.
Her eyes swivelled to Burton and fixed upon him.
“You!”
He jerked back in his chair and gasped, tried to stand but couldn't. Pain gripped the back of his head as if a cold hand had clamped down on his brain.
“Intruder! Spy!”
She had not spoken aloud. Her voice was now inside his skull.
The host twitched and choked as the ectoplasm continued to flow from his mouth. The two men whose astral bodies had departed sat blank-eyed and motionless. The three other men turned their heads and regarded Burton. One of them said something but no sound emerged. There was no sound in the room at all; a profound, unnatural silence had fallen.
Everything slowed and became motionless. Only the ghostly woman moved.
Something wormed its way into Burton's mind.
“Who are you?” she hissed.
He flinched and fought against her intrusive probing. Get out of my head!
“My! How resistant! I am impressed! You have willpower! No matter, your defences are nothing to me. Your name is Richard Burton. Ah. I see you have a reputation. A scholar, an explorer, and-an irritant!”
Withdrawing into himself, the king's agent visualised the mental chambers and structures he'd established through self-mesmerism. His knowledge of Edward Oxford-and of a future that had been destined but which was now cut loose and replaced-he set aside. He devalued all the routes to it and made them seem so entirely insignificant that they would, he hoped, be overlooked. At the same time, he strengthened the mental walls surrounding his more personal and sensitive memories and tried to make them impenetrable.
He was using his own insecurities to entice her away from the information he needed to protect.
It worked.
“No, no, malchi
k moi! There is no hiding!”
The words were like a blade, running him through.
Who the hell are you? Don't try to fool me with that Lady Mabella nonsense!
A cruel chuckle echoed in his skull.
“Ah yes, the unfortunate Tichborne clan and their silly curse! How convenient that was!”
His walls were breached.
Stop!
“My, a complicated little thing, aren't you? What is this? You are in the employ of the king himself! So I was right! You are a spy!”
The beady black eyes bored into his. He struggled and failed to look away.
He tried to distract her: For all your hokum, you're nothing but a murderer and thief. You killed Jean Pelletier, didn't you?
“ Pah! I simply appeared before him and he dropped dead from fright, the weak fool. ”
You took his diamonds. And then the Francois Garnier Choir Stones.
“ Yes, yes. I lifted them through the solid metal of a safe just as I could pull your brain from your skull without breaking the skin of your scalp. ”
And replaced them with onyx crystals. Why? Did you think to delay investigations into the matter?
“Yes. I see that it didn't work. How did you discover my little deception? Let us find out.”
He felt her burrowing deeper and deeper, and he allowed the intrusion, for as she penetrated his mind, he found that he was able to stealthily enter hers.
“Bozhe moi! Brunel and Babbage! So, the detestable Technologists have an interest in the diamonds, too!”
Babbage had plans for the stones. Your intentions, though, seem rather more nefarious, and to achieve those ends, you've made unwitting pawns of the Rakes, have you not?
“Unwitting? More like witless. The vacant-headed fools! Becoming the leader of their pathetic clique was child's play to one such as
I.”
The woman's weakness was obvious: she possessed overweening vanity. She was supremely confident in her abilities and, having no knowledge of his Sufi training, vastly underestimated him. However, in order to inveigle information from her, he had to keep her occupied, and the only way to do that was to sacrifice the deeper reaches of his own mind-to give her access to his insecurities, sorrows, and regrets.
It was agony.
Burton felt his heart tighten as she infiltrated the grief he associated with the Berbera expedition-but he pushed through the pain and surprised her with a question: Who is Arthur Orton?
