The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

by Mark Hodder

  The Honourable Henry Raymond Arundell—nephew to Lord Gerard, the 10th Baron of Arundell—was a small man with a boyish face supplemented by an oddly square-shaped beard growing from beneath the angle of his jaw; his cheeks, upper lip, and chin were all clean-shaven. His hair showed the same golden blondness his daughter had inherited. Henry Arundell held a grudging respect for Burton—an attitude not shared by his wife—and shook the explorer’s hand with genuine warmth.

  Mrs. Eliza Arundell was tall, like Isabel, with a face too masculine and severe to qualify as beautiful, though she was certainly handsome. She greeted Burton and his friends politely but cautiously, and looked down at Swinburne with an expression of bemusement, as if her son-in-law-to-be had ushered Shakespeare’s Puck into her presence.

  The rest of the family was introduced; Isabel’s cousins—Rudolph, tall and somewhat bumptious in manner; Jack, short, rotund, and shy; her Uncle Renfric, white-bearded and thoroughly disapproving of, it appeared, just about everything; and Blanche’s wayward husband, John Smythe Piggott, who, though handsome, carried himself with an air of superiority that Burton found thoroughly irritating.

  Next, the other guests were presented, starting with Doctor George Bird and his wife, Lallah, both of whom Isabel held in high regard. “Dear George has been teaching me to fence,” she told Burton.

  “Indeed!” the explorer exclaimed as he shook the tall physician’s hand. “Have you practised the art for long, Doctor?”

  “Not long enough to hold my own against you. You’re reputed one of the best in Europe.”

  Burton bowed his head courteously, then said to Isabel, “But why have you taken up the foil, my dear?”

  “To defend you should we be attacked in the Arabian wilderness, of course!”

  Burton raised an eyebrow and shared a slight smile of amusement with Bird.

  Samuel Beeton was next to be introduced. Burton already knew a little about this dark-haired and good-looking man; he was a publisher and had made a fortune from Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. His wife, Isabella—heavily pregnant—was one of his authors, very beautiful, with hair thick, black, and long, and dark, soulful eyes. When Burton took her hand, he felt an immediate affinity with her, and remembered that Isabel—who’d met her at a social function five years ago, before she’d become Mrs. Beeton—had reported a similar sensation: I was presented to a fine lady by the name of Isabella Mayson who I took to my heart in an instant, feeling, after our initial exchange of pleasantries, as if I’d known her my entire life.

  Sadhvi Raghavendra came forward and met Swinburne and Levi, then Richard Monckton Milnes greeted his friends.

  After half an hour of polite chatter with the ladies, the men repaired to the smoking room. For a brief moment, as the gents departed, Isabel was distracted when her uncle’s gout caused him to give a cry of distress, and Sadhvi Raghavendra took the opportunity to lean close to Burton. “What have you been up to, Richard?” she said softly. “I see fresh scars.”

  “It’s a long story,” he replied.

  “We must talk later. I’m concerned about Isabel.”

  His eyes held hers for a moment. “Is there a problem, Sadhvi?”

  “Only that she’s running herself into the ground.”

  He gave an acknowledging touch to her arm, then joined the men as they passed through the door, walked along the hallway, and entered the smoking room, where the usual ritual of drinks and cigars commenced.

  “What is it like to be back in England’s green and pleasant land, Sir Richard?” Sam Beeton asked.

  “Stranger every day.”

  “Was Africa as savage as the stories have it?”

  “Oh, absolutely so.”

  Monckton Milnes put in, “Richard already knew what he was letting himself in for when he went after the Nile, Mr. Beeton. He’d taken a spear through the face in a pitched battle at Berbera not four years previously.”

  “Ah! Now then, Burton,” Bird interrupted, “tell me how you feel when you have killed a man.”

  Burton looked at him slyly and drawled, “Quite jolly, Doctor. How do you?”

  Bird threw his head back and gave a great bellow of laughter. “Touché!” he hollered. “Touché!”

  “Incidentally,” Monckton Milnes said, “Steinhaueser arrives tomorrow. I daresay he’ll want to give you the once-over, Richard.”

  “Are you referring to Doctor John Steinhaueser?” Bird asked.

  “Yes—you know him?” Monckton Milnes responded.

  “By repute. A very skilled practitioner, I believe.” Bird regarded Burton. “Your personal physician?”

  “And friend,” Burton replied. “He has twice put me back together; first, after the spear wound—” he touched the scar on his cheek, “and, more recently, after I was injured when a steam sphere collided with my rotorchair.” He inwardly winced, remembering that Isabel didn’t know about his most recent brush with death.

  Loose tongue! Dolt!

  “Hah!” Uncle Renfric shouted, as—leaning heavily on his walking stick—he cautiously lowered himself into a chair by the fireplace and rested his gouty foot upon a leather pouffe. “Just as I’ve always said! These damnable machines are a threat to life and limb. Hah, I say! Humbug and hah! Why must everything change? Old England was in perfectly good shape before that hound Disraeli inflicted the Department of Guided Science upon us. Perfectly good! Hah!”

  Swinburne, who was loitering near the drinks cabinet, screeched, “My hat, sir! Quite obviously you have never resided in London.”

  Uncle Renfric raised a monocle to his eye and squinted through it at the little poet. “I’ve not even visited it, young lady. Den of sin. And I fail to see how my geographical position has any bearing on the matter. Nor do I understand why you are present in a gentlemen’s smoking parlour.”

  “I may be young, but I’m no lady,” Swinburne replied. “And if I was, I certainly wouldn’t be.”

  “Prattle! Prattle! What are you talking about?”

  Swinburne hopped and gesticulated. “Bazalgette, of course!”

  “There!” Uncle Renfric announced. “Again! Prattle! Nothing but noise! Take note of the Good Book, little missy, for it sayeth: Even a fool who keeps silent is considered wise; when he closes his lips, he is deemed intelligent. Hah! Yes! Hah!”

  “Bazalgette!” Swinburne squealed. “His sewers!”

  “A fit of feminine hysteria, is it? Must be the tobacco smoke. I told you, this is no place for a girl. Begone, at once!”

  “Gah!” Swinburne cried out. “Don’t you see? Without the DOGS we’d not have him, and without him we’d not have the new sewer system. Old England may have been perfectly good, sir, but its capital stinks something rotten!”

  “Ho hah! Sense out of her, at last! Of course it stinks, missy! Of fire and brimstone, no doubt! Fire and brimstone, I say!” The old man turned his monocle, surveying the room until he fixed upon Eliphas Levi. “You, sir! You have the look of a priest about you, and I see the crucifix upon your chest.”

  “Oui, monsieur. I have train as a Catholic priest,” Levi said.

  “Hah! Good show! Come here. I’ll have your opinion on this ungodly business of so-called scientific advancement. You are cursed with being a Frenchie, I discern, but I’ll not hold that against you. Come! Come!” The old man lifted his walking stick and prodded it in Swinburne’s direction. “And you, young lady, out! Out! Wrong room, wrong gender! Lord have mercy! In trousers, too! Whatever is the world coming to?”

  The poet stood with mouth agape, then spun on his heel and demanded a large brandy from one of the clockwork footmen.

  While Levi attended to the unenviable task of keeping Uncle Renfric occupied—and cousins Rudolph and Jack took to the billiard table with Smythe Piggott—Burton, Swinburne, Monckton Milnes, Doctor Bird, Sam Beeton, and Henry Arundell seated themselves upon three leather sofas positioned around a low coffee table.

  “Speaking of Bazalgette—” Beeton started.


  “I fervently wish I hadn’t been,” Swinburne interrupted.

  “—have you heard about the adventures of the Norwood builders?”

  Burton recalled reading something about it in the newspapers. “In relation to the southern part of the sewer system, I believe?”

  “Yes. Bazalgette is appropriating the subterranean River Effra, as he did with the Tyburn, turning it into an outlet tunnel from Herne Hill all the way northward to Vauxhall, but his workers are in revolt due to the ghosts.”

  “Ghosts?” Henry Arundell asked.

  Beeton nodded. “The river has its origins about a mile south of the construction site and runs past the Norwood Cemetery catacombs. The workers are convinced the upper reaches of the waterway are haunted. The poor blighters are so terrified, old Bazalgette can hardly get a day’s work out of ’em!”

  Burton grunted dismissively. “The average Englishman possesses the very same superstitious fears as an African tribesman, yet we claim ourselves a superior race.”

  “What a contrast,” Monckton Milnes mused. “The irrational at one end of the river and the rational at the other.”

  “Rational? How so?” Doctor Bird asked.

  “The river joins the Thames at Vauxhall, very close to the DOGS’ headquarters. It flows from the funereal to the functional.”

  Bird shuddered. “Thank goodness for that. Were it reversed, we should have to rename it the Styx. Brrr! I don’t like the idea of an underground river.”

  Nor did Burton. He had a strong aversion to enclosed spaces.

  He struggled to clarify a lurking thought. Something had just occurred to him but, like the Effra, it bubbled far beneath the surface. Having failed to drag it into his conscious mind, he was left with the irritating sense that he knew something important but couldn’t identify what.

  Think, you dolt! Think!

  PEACE AND GOODWILL TO ALL MEN!

  The 11th Hour of the 11th Day of the 11th Month

  THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE

  CENTRAL GERMAN CONFEDERATION

  AND THE SIGNING OF

  THE TRADE ALLIANCE

  QUEEN VICTORIA MEMORIAL, GREEN PARK, LONDON

  His Majesty King George V; HRH Prince Albert;

  Prime Minister Disraeli and His Majesty’s Government;

  Maximilian II of Bavaria; Emperor Franz Joseph I;

  The Göttingen Seven; Count Franz Anton von Kolowrat-Liebsteinsky.

  A GOLDEN DAWN FOR EUROPE!

  UNITY AND PROSPERITY!

  Having enjoyed an extravagant dinner, Burton and his companions were given a tour of New Wardour Castle. The mansion was enormous, and had many high painted ceilings and ornate fireplaces. The ballroom, on the first floor, was perhaps eight times bigger than the one in the Orpheus, with Roman columns rising to a vaulted ceiling from which three elaborate chandeliers hung. A decorative balustrade circled the chamber, from which spectators could look down upon the dancing couples.

  The party socialised until near midnight, then the houseguests retired to their rooms; however, shortly before they did so, Burton found a moment to converse alone with Sister Raghavendra.

  “Why such concern?” he asked. “Isabel appears in fine fettle.”

  “You must tell her to rest,” she replied. “She’s so thrown herself into arranging the party that she’s become overwrought and exhausted. She’s hiding it well, I’ll admit, but I can sense it.”

  “I know to trust your judgement, Sadhvi. Thank you. I’ll ensure she has a leisurely day tomorrow.”

  When Burton entered his bedchamber, he saw that Bram Stoker had laid out his pyjamas and provided a fresh basin of water along with laundered towels. The lad was now snoring in the next room.

  The explorer washed, undressed, and got into bed. He performed a Sufi meditation—one that always sent him quickly into the depths of sleep—and he dreamt.

  You’re awake.

  No, I’m not.

  You are. Get out of bed. Open the curtains.

  He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, stood, and walked over to the window.

  Look outside.

  He took hold of the thick material, drew it to either side, stepped closer to the glass, and peered out. A half-moon was shining behind ragged, fast-moving clouds. Stars flickered, vanished, and reappeared. The landscape crawled with shadows and silver light. There was a path. It cut across a neatly trimmed lawn, ran alongside flower beds, and meandered through the inky darkness beneath breeze-blown trees.

  He saw a ghost.

  The window’s glass was old and uneven. It distorted the vista. When he moved his head—which he did now—everything outside undulated and jumped. The wraith was there, then not there, then there again. It vanished into shadow and was then momentarily made vivid by moonlight. He struggled for a clear view of it.

  A woman?

  Yes. Flitting along the path, in a white gown that rippled and flapped around her.

  She was moving away from the house. He watched as she darted across a wide wooden bridge spanning a stream then plunged into the gloom at the edge of a thickly forested area.

  This is a dream.

  If that is true, wake up.

  He opened his eyes. Watery daylight was leaking into the bedroom through a chink between the closed curtains. He turned onto his side and took his pocket watch from the bedside table. It was half-past seven. He sat up, stretched, and hissed as his ribs complained, then lay back with his hands behind his head.

  He struggled to bring a half-formed thought to conception. It had been there since yesterday evening, nagging at the back of his mind. Something concealed yet…obvious. Damnation, what was it?

  It evaded him. However, while wrestling to bring it forth, he instead remembered the dream. Frowning, he sat up again, looked at the window, and muttered, “The Norwood ghosts,” for it was obvious to him that the talk of the River Effra hauntings had invaded his sleep. He got out of bed, crossed the room, drew the curtains, and looked out. Under a grey, threatening sky, the landscape was exactly as he’d seen it under the half-moon.

  He tried to recall whether he’d looked out of this window yesterday. He didn’t think he had. How, then, could he have dreamt the view?

  A raven flew into the glass with a loud bang. The window cracked and Burton leaped back with a yelp of surprise. The bird dropped from sight.

  He put a hand to his chest. His heart was hammering. He fought to calm himself.

  The connecting door opened and Bram stepped in.

  “Mornin’ to ye, Cap’n. Did ye drop somethin’?”

  “Good morning, lad. No—a bird hit the windowpane. Startled me. Did you sleep well?”

  “Aye, the sleep o’ the dead. Will I be a-layin’ out your mornin’ suit?”

  “Yes please, then go downstairs and find yourself something to eat.”

  An hour later, the explorer joined the Arundell family and their guests around a long dining table. A host of quietly ticking clockwork footmen served breakfast. Isabel and Doctor Bird were absent.

  “She’s sleeping in,” Blanche said, in response to Burton’s enquiry. “She had a restless night. Doctor Bird is checking on her, just as a precaution. Ah, here he is.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Bird announced, entering the room. He pulled out a chair and sat with them. “But she’s very fatigued. Mrs. Arundell, I ordered her to rest today, but she’s somewhat—um—um—”

  “Obstinate,” Eliza Arundell supplied. “Always has been. I’ll go up after breakfast. If she won’t listen to her doctor, perhaps she’ll listen to her mother.”

  After they’d eaten, Monckton Milnes and Eliphas Levi took to the library to peruse the collection, while the Arundells, Birds, and Beetons retired to the music room. Burton decided on a stroll in the grounds and was joined by Swinburne. Nettles, the butler, handed them each an umbrella as they stepped out. It was raining lightly but steadily.

  “You are marrying into money, Richard,” the poet observed, looking back at the manor as t
hey crossed its lawn, “and plenty of it.”

  “The wealth is with Isabel’s Great-Uncle Gerard, Algy. Her parents are sufficiently well off but by no means rich, and the fact that their daughter is marrying a heathen means none of their pile will be coming our way. I have, I’ll freely confess, felt rather guilty about that, but Isabel is adamant she wants only what I can offer.”

  “A dreadful headache?” Swinburne quipped.

  “A life—which she regards as exotic and exciting—in Damascus.”

  Even as he said it, Burton felt a sudden reluctance. Bismillah! Had he become so entwined in this Abdu El Yezdi affair that the consulship had lost its allure? How could he break that news to his fiancée?

  He pointed his swordstick at the path ahead of them—the one that led over the wooden bridge—and said, “Let’s follow that.”

  They strode along the trail, its gravel crunching beneath their boots, the rain sizzling on their brollies, until they came to the stream.

  Swinburne gazed up at the treetops. “My hat! What a ruckus those ravens are making.”

  Burton gave a distracted sound of agreement. He stopped and squatted, examining a patch of mud between the gravel and the wooden boards of the bridge.

  “What have you found?” Swinburne asked.

  “A partial print, made by a woman’s bare foot. We’re lucky we caught it. The rain will have it washed away soon enough.”

  “That’s rather incongruous—a barefooted woman out in this weather.”

  “She was here last night, Algy. I saw her from my bedroom window. I thought I was dreaming a ghost. Apparently not. Hallo! There’s Tom Honesty.” Burton raised his stick and called to the groundsman, who’d just come into view ahead of them. He was dressed in waterproofs, pushing a wheelbarrow filled with cut logs, which he lowered as the explorer and his companion crossed the bridge and approached him.

  “Morning, sirs. Nasty weather.”

  “Good morning. It is indeed. I say, Mr. Honesty, this path—where does it lead?”

  “Past High Wood, sir. Through Ark Farm. Continues on to the old castle.”