The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

by Mark Hodder

  “Are you suggesting that Galton’s accomplice was an—ugh!—old man, sir?”

  “Two men broke the window, Doctor. And it doesn’t necessarily follow that because their footwear was old, so were they.” Burton straightened. “Two sets of prints. Both men wore the same style of footwear. One had long, narrow feet, the other, short, wide ones. The latter individual was the heavier of the pair.”

  Damien Burke and Gregory Hare.

  There was no doubt about it. Burton had seen plenty of newspaper illustrations of the notorious duo. Their famously old-fashioned attire, which included buckled shoes, had been the delight of Punch cartoonists. And Hare was shorter but far bulkier than Burke.

  So, having failed to kidnap Isambard Kingdom Brunel, they’d got Francis Galton.

  Why?

  “I think it’s high time I saw Oliphant, Doctor.”

  Monroe spasmed, nodded, and accompanied the explorer back the way they’d come. When they reached the lobby, he rang a bell and waited until two attendants appeared. Both were wearing stained leather aprons. Ordering them to follow, he then ushered Burton up a flight of stairs and toward the west wing of the asylum. They passed along cell-lined hallways and were assailed by shouts and screams, incoherent babbling, pleading, and curses. The odour of human sweat and excrement was worse even than the foulest-smelling of the many swamps Burton had struggled through in Africa.

  More passageways, more staircases, until on the fourth floor, a door blocked their path. One of the attendants produced a bunch of keys and set about opening it.

  “Ugh!” Monroe jerked. “You’ll find fewer patients in this next area, but the ones we keep here are among the most seriously—ugh!—deranged and can be exceedingly violent. They’ll watch our every move through the slots in their cell doors. Please refrain from making eye contact with them.”

  The portal’s hinges squealed as the attendant pushed it open. They passed through into yet another filthy corridor. A nurse greeted them.

  “This is Sister Camberwick,” the doctor said. “She oversees this section. Sister, this is Inspector Cribbins of the Government Medical Board. He wishes to interview Mr. Oliphant. Is the patient quiet?”

  After bobbing to Burton, the nurse replied, “He is, Doctor.”

  “Good. Good. Go about your duties. I’ll accompany Mr. Cribbins.”

  She gave another bob and stood to one side to let them pass. The party moved a little farther on until it came to a cell door marked with the number 466.

  Monroe addressed the two attendants. “Stay here. Come at once if I call for you.” To Burton, he said, “I’ll allow you as much time as you require providing he doesn’t become—ugh!—agitated. If he does, I’ll have to terminate the interview immediately.”

  “I understand.”

  Monroe held out his hand and one of the attendants placed his keys into it. After selecting the appropriate one, the warden put his mouth to the slot in the door and said, “Mr. Oliphant. I am Doctor Monroe. I have with me a visitor named Mr. Cribbins. We would like to come in and speak with you. Have you any objection?”

  Burton heard Oliphant’s familiar voice answer, “None at all, sir. Please enter freely—and of your own free will.”

  Monroe looked at Burton, raised an eyebrow, and whispered, “You note the inappropriate and oddly worded formality? No matter how normal a patient’s behaviour may appear, such incongruous language is always a sure sign of—ugh!—defective thinking.”

  He turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open, revealing Laurence Oliphant, sitting on a bunk, smiling broadly, his fringe of hair and bushy beard dishevelled, his arms bound by a strait waistcoat.

  “Come in, Doctor! Come in, Mr. Cribbins! I am delighted to have guests! Forgive me if I do not shake your hands. I am somewhat inconvenienced, as you’ll bear witness.”

  They entered the cell and Monroe closed the door behind them. “I’m pleased to see that you’ve calmed down, Mr. Oliphant. Continue in this manner and the jacket will be removed, I assure you.”

  “Excellent! I’m eager to get back to work.” Oliphant looked toward the window, and Burton, following his gaze, saw that what from the corner of his eye he’d presumed to be a hanging gown wasn’t a gown at all, but a great mass of dead rats, woven together by their tails—as garlic is platted by its stalks—and strung from the window bars. Unable to stop himself, he cried out, “Good God!”

  Oliphant cackled. “He he he! Flesh, you see, Mr. Cribbins. Dead flesh, all ready to be re-formed and given new life. It doesn’t matter that it’s rat flesh. Any will do. Flesh is flesh. Merely a vehicle.”

  “A vehicle for what?” Burton asked.

  “For my master!” Oliphant suddenly checked himself. His eyes slid slyly from side to side then fixed on Burton, and he hissed, “He has the royal charter now. Drum, drum, drum! Come, come! Drum, drum, drum! They will answer the call, and then nothing will stop him. Out of Africa! Out of Africa! He’ll repair this broken world of ours, and I shall be rewarded with an entire history of my very own! Ha! What shall I make of you, Mr. Cribbins, Doctor Monroe?—Paupers? Kings? Criminals? Or perhaps madmen? Ha ha ha!”

  “Calm yourself, please,” Monroe said. “You don’t want to get—ugh!—overexcited again, do you?”

  His patient’s giggling stopped abruptly. Oliphant shook his head, grinned, and shrugged. “No need. Now I can wait. Now I can wait. Drum, drum, drum! Drum, drum, drum!”

  The doctor turned to Burton. “Mr. Cribbins, have you any particular questions you’d like to ask the patient?”

  “Just one,” Burton replied. “Mr. Oliphant, the numbers one thousand, nine hundred, ten, and eight—what do they signify?”

  Oliphant gave a cry of surprise, then threw back his head and let loose a peal of laughter that rapidly transformed into a scream of fury.

  “What do you know?” he yelled. “Are you a spy? Yes! Yes! A spy! I’ll kill you! I’ll bloody kill you, you bastard spy!”

  He sprang from the bed and lunged at Burton, his mouth wide and teeth exposed. The explorer dodged, was knocked back against the wall, and felt the maniac’s jaws clench down on his collar.

  “Attendants! Attendants!” Monroe bellowed.

  Burton struggled but Oliphant seemed ten times stronger than a sane man.

  “Get him away from me! He’s trying to bite my throat!”

  The attendants crashed in and dragged Oliphant off.

  “The end!” he screamed. “The numbers add up to the end of the British Empire! Ha ha ha! The end! The end! The end!”

  NOTICE

  Norwood Road, Herne Hill, and Denmark Hill will be closed to through traffic until further notice. This is to facilitate the construction of Mr. Bazalgette’s sewer tunnel along the course of the subterranean River Effra.

  The Department of Guided Science apologises for any inconvenience caused.

  The Department of Guided Science

  Making a Healthier, Cleaner, Better London.

  The interview with Oliphant had been short but unsettling, and throughout the following night Burton was repeatedly shocked awake by nightmares in which he saw the lunatic’s face looming out of the darkness, feline eyes blazing and muzzle-like jaws extended, displaying elongated, blood-dripping canines.

  By seven in the morning he’d given up on further sleep, so washed, dressed, and went downstairs. He stepped out into the street and located the newspaper boy a little way down Montagu Place. Passing him a few coins, he said, “I need the address of a man named Charles Darwin. He’s a member of the Royal Geographical Society, so you’ll find it in the register there.”

  “Straight away, sir,” the lad said, and immediately scampered off. Burton watched him approach another urchin at the corner of Seymour Place and whisper in his ear. The second youngster raced away and the Irish boy turned, grinned, and gave Burton the thumbs-up.

  The explorer returned to his study. Oliphant lingered in his thoughts and made him sullen and uncommunicative during breakf
ast—Mrs. Angell had witnessed such moods before and served him silently and efficiently before making a rapid withdrawal—and afterward he spent the morning with a foil in his hand, practising his fencing technique against an imaginary opponent.

  He forced his mind into silence, finally driving Lord Elgin’s secretary out of it, and focused instead on the physical exertion, gauging carefully his own strength and weakness, and discovering, to his satisfaction, that no remnant of fever remained; he was close to his normal level of health and fitness.

  At half-past eleven, he was flannelling the sweat from his face and neck when the doorbell jangled. He heard his housekeeper answer it then thump up the stairs.

  “Yes?” he called in response to her knock.

  She looked in. “There’s an unwashed guttersnipe on our doorstep. He says he has a message for you.”

  “Send him up, please.”

  “Up the stairs?”

  “I don’t expect him to scale the outer wall, Mrs. Angell.”

  “But his boots are filthy.”

  Burton gave his housekeeper what she referred to as the look. She heaved a sigh and disappeared from sight. Moments later, a quiet tapping sounded on the door.

  “Come in.”

  The Whisperer entered, and his eyes widened as he saw the various weapons on the wall and the foil in Burton’s hand.

  “You have it?” the explorer asked.

  “That I do, sir. Mr. Darwin lives at Down House, on the Luxted Road, quarter of a mile south of Downe Village in Kent.”

  “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Abraham, sir. Abraham Stoker. Most folks call me Bram.”

  “Have you a place to call home?”

  “I calls the streets me home, sir.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  “Wherever I can.”

  “Hmm! Well, here’s another sixpence for you, Master Bram.”

  Burton took a coin from a pot on one of his workbenches and flipped it to the boy, who caught it smartly and gave a salute.

  “Thank you, sir. Much obliged! Is there anything else I can be a-doin’ for ye?”

  “Not for the moment, thank you.”

  “Right you are, sir. You know where to find me.” Bram saluted again and departed. Half a minute later, Burton heard Mrs. Angell cry out, “Not there! Not there! I’ve just brushed it!”

  The street door banged. Burton resumed his training. Five minutes passed. The doorbell clanged again. Mrs. Angell reappeared at the study door, this time with a broom in her hand.

  “Mr. Monckton Milnes is here. Perhaps you’d consider moving your study to the ground floor? It would save me a lot of running up and down, not to mention sweeping. I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.”

  Burton bellowed, “Come on up, old chap!”

  Mrs. Angell grumbled, “Well! Bless me! I could have informed him in a rather more civil manner,” and withdrew.

  Monckton Milnes entered and announced, “Just dropping by to tell you I’m fleeing the city, old boy. The growing stink is too much for me. Gad! Have you heard? The sewage is already rising into the streets around Saint Pancras. The sooner they release the flow, the better. Anyway, I’m off to Fryston tomorrow. Fresh Yorkshire air. I’ve bagged a berth on the jolly old Orpheus. Phew! What have you been up to?”

  “Practising,” Burton replied. He returned his foil to its bracket over the fireplace. “Getting myself back into shape. Tipple?”

  “No, thank you.” Monckton Milnes dropped into an armchair. “I’m swearing off the stuff for a few days. Rossetti called on me. So, the truth is out.”

  “It is.” Burton sat opposite him. “All these years we’ve been friends, and you were hiding that!”

  “Not just from you. I haven’t been allowed to discuss it with anyone beyond Disraeli’s inner circle. One must demonstrate an ability to keep the lips firmly buttoned if one is to be trusted with secrets.”

  “Declares the most incorrigible gossip in town.”

  “It is to that reputation, my dear fellow, that I owe my success. Through the ceaseless distribution of inconsequential tittle-tattle, I have earned a reputation as a man who cannot keep a confidence, thus not a single person suspects that, in fact, I harbour some of the biggest secrets in the Empire.”

  “So you know the rest, I suppose?”

  “The disappearances? Burke and Hare? You as king’s agent? Yes, Richard. What I wasn’t already aware of, I was briefed on last week. Now I understand why Florence didn’t return to the theatre. My manly pride is restored but, frankly, I’d gladly give it up to know what has become of her. I’m worried sick. Have you made any progress?”

  Burton regarded his friend silently then said, “Before I answer that, tell me two things. First, why me?”

  Monckton Milnes gave a slight shrug. “To be the king’s agent? Isn’t it obvious? You have greater skills in your little finger than a dozen men could hope to accrue in a lifetime. Your intellect is ferocious; you are as strong as an ox; you can fight like a demon; and you’re related to, and acquainted with, some of the principal dramatis personæ.”

  “And the decision was made the weekend after my return?”

  “Yes, in an emergency meeting on the Sunday, in response to Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s abduction. You and I were at the Cannibal Club at the time.”

  “Who suggested me for the role?”

  “I understand your brother did.”

  “I suspected as much. Without his involvement, the coincidences are too remarkable to be credible.”

  “What coincidences?”

  “My investigation has led again and again to The Assassination, and according to two people, I was there—except, of course, I wasn’t. One of those witnesses says I had with me a rifle upon which the number one thousand, nine hundred, and eighteen was engraved. As you already know, one thousand, nine hundred, ten, and eight were integral to Oliphant’s ritual.”

  Monckton Milnes’s eyebrows rose. “By Gad! That’s damned peculiar. What does it mean?”

  “It means that Edward was already aware that I am somehow, unknowingly, involved in the events I’m investigating.”

  Burton’s friend nodded as if this was a statement of the obvious. “He must have received information to that effect from Abdu El Yezdi, before the latter’s sudden silence. Can you continue to doubt the existence of spirit advisors, Richard?”

  Burton pressed his hands together and tapped them against his chin. “Let us just say that I now regard the subject as an avenue worth exploring. Which brings me to my second question. When Countess Sabina first approached you, back in 1840, why did you give her any credence?”

  “You and I have on a couple of occasions discussed the pornographic poem The Betuliad.”

  Burton nodded. “A celebration of flagellation, author unknown. What of it?”

  “The countess knew that it also exists under an alternate title—The Rodiad. She was also aware of the author’s identity.”

  “Indeed! Who wrote it?”

  “I did.”

  Burton laughed. “You deceptive hound!”

  “I was just having a little fun at your and everyone else’s expense. No one—absolutely no one—knew it was my work. Yet she did, and I couldn’t ignore or discount her.”

  “Then I rescind my earlier refusal,” Burton said. “I would like to meet with her. Might she be willing to see me?”

  “I should think so. She’s a virtual recluse these days but she still comes to me when I request it, and I daresay she’ll call on you if I ask her to.”

  “Thank you. As to whether I’ve made any progress or not, I can’t judge it, but there have certainly been developments, the main being that, with Oliphant’s help, Burke and Hare have broken Francis Galton out of Bedlam.”

  “Good God! They have Galton, of all people? That man’s mastery of Eugenics poses a terrible danger. Are you certain it was Burke and Hare?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “What the h
ell are they playing at, I wonder?”

  “I intend to find out.”

  Monckton Milnes, his face creasing with worry, massaged his forehead.

  Burton said, “I’m concerned you might also be at risk. I imagine they have a bone to pick with you.”

  “Probably not. I strongly doubt that Palmerston’s thugs are aware of the role I played in their master’s fall from grace. I was very much behind the scenes.”

  “Good,” Burton responded. “Nevertheless, I’m glad you’re off to Fryston. If Burke and Hare are currently in London, then perhaps it’s best that you’re not.”

  Monckton Milnes jumped to his feet. “You’re right, and I’m running late. Sorry to be unsociable but I really must dash. Bags to pack and whatnot. I understand you’ll be at Wallington Hall next month. I’ll see you there.”

  Burton rose. “Ah! You’re attending, too, then?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Rossetti showed me some of young Swinburne’s poetry—it’s quite extraordinary. I’ve never read anything like it. A prodigious talent! He’s going to be an absolute sensation and I’m eager to meet him. I wrote to Lady Trevelyan. She doesn’t entirely approve of me—I’m rather too raffish, apparently. Nevertheless, I managed to wangle an invite. A few days there, then perhaps we can travel together to New Wardour Castle, yes?”

  “Certainly.”

  They strode across the room. The explorer opened the door and followed his friend through.

  “Incidentally,” Burton said as they descended the stairs, “what of your French acquaintance?”

  “No word yet—the post isn’t that fast—but I’ll contact you the moment he replies.”

  “Very well. Of course, I’ll do likewise if I discover anything about Nurse Nightingale.”

  Monckton Milnes took his topper from the hallway stand.

  Just as Burton was reaching to open the street door, a tremendous thumping rattled it on its hinges.

  “Great heavens!” Monckton Milnes exclaimed. “Are we under attack?”

  “It appears so.” Burton turned the handle and opened the door. Detective Inspector Trounce, who was just commencing his next assault, overbalanced and stumbled in.