by Mark Hodder
Trounce grunted. “Humph! Very well. May we return to sane matters?”
Burton gestured for him to continue.
“There have been no further abductions reported,” the police detective said, “but something else has come to light. I remembered you saying Eugenics was at the heart of all this, and that it requires medical knowledge and machinery. Four days ago, equipment and supplies were stolen from the chemical laboratories at the University College on Upper Gower Street. It prompted me to go through the records. It turns out there have been a spate of such burglaries all around the city over the past two months. It looks to me as if someone has been gathering the means to create their own laboratory, and an extravagant one, at that.”
Burton said, “Ah! I wonder where.”
“I’ve put out a general order for our constables to keep their eyes peeled, but our resources are stretched thin at the moment. We’ve had to divert a lot of men to the East End.”
“What’s happening there? It’s political agitation, I heard.”
“It is, and it’s worsening every day. We’ve managed to keep it out of the rags so far—fortunately newspapermen are too cowardly to set foot in the Cauldron—but Chief Commissioner Mayne is concerned that when the story breaks, as it inevitably will, it might stir up trouble in other parts of the country. Look at these.”
Trounce reached into his jacket and pulled out a number of leaflets, handing them to Burton. They were each printed on one side only; black ink on cheap paper.
“Apparently, they’re all over the area,” the Scotland Yard man said. “Pasted to lampposts, doors, window shutters—thousands of them.”
Burton examined the first, struggling to bring his eyes into focus.
The Germanic States Must Be Destroyed!
Oppose the Confederation! Oppose the Alliance!
Save British Jobs!
Save British Pride!
Save the British Empire!
He turned to the next.
German Trickery!
Do not believe the lies you have been told.
Prince Albert is German.
He is working for German interests not for British.
The Central German Confederation wants our trade.
It is greedy for our territory and for our influence.
Resist those who promote this foreign power and undermine our own.
Fight for Britain! Fight the enemy among us!
Burton made a small exclamation and held one of the leaflets up to the light. He snapped his fingers, went to a desk, returned, and handed a pamphlet to Trounce. “You remember this?”
“‘The Language of the Angels.’ Yes, of course, it’s from the League of Enochians Gentlemen’s Club.”
“Look at the paper, Trounce. It’s the same brand, and printed with the same ink.”
“By Jove! Are the Enochians spreading this sedition? Then we’ve got them. We have cause to raid their headquarters.”
“We do, but hold off. Such tactics will get us nowhere. Is Thomas Lake Harris still at the Regency?”
“Yes. I have Spearing keeping a round-the-clock watch on him.”
“I intend to approach him tomorrow night—see if he’ll take me into the club as a guest. I daresay I can find out more from posing as a friend than if we storm the place swinging truncheons at them.”
“Messieurs,” Levi said, “this hate of the Germanic countries, it link again the Enochians to Perdurabo.”
“The—what did you call him?—Nefertiti?” Trounce asked.
“Nosferatu.”
“How so?”
“You recall Captain Taylor of the Royal Charter—he report voices in the crater where Perdurabo take possession of John Judge. They suggest a battle against German forces, non? Too, Countess Sabina, she claim that Abdu El Yezdi try to prevent a war.”
“With a united Germany, you mean?” Burton asked.
“Oui. It explain why all this business occur at this moment in time, with the Alliance, you see?”
Burton nodded. “I think you’re right. I’d venture that, while Abdu El Yezdi has manipulated the government to broker peace and avoid a conflict, Perdurabo is using the Enochians to provoke the war early, before Germany has the manufacturing power it would gain from the Alliance.”
“Exactement!”
Trounce scratched his head. “Provoke it by stirring up the Cauldron? That’s a stretch. The place is a hive of criminals and paupers—what influence do they have?”
“They have the weight of numbers,” Burton responded. “Plus a lack of education and a grudge against the better-off. Mobilise that, and you have an army eager to fight, whatever the cause. Besides, I suspect this—” he waved one of the leaflets, “—is just the beginning.”
“I know you can’t sit still at the best of times,” Burton whispered to Algernon Swinburne, “but this is beyond the bounds. Will you please control yourself? You’re attracting attention.”
“I can’t help it. Betsy has a very strong right arm. You should’ve come with me to Verbena Lodge, Richard. The madams are the strictest in London.”
“I’ve spent the day in peaceful meditation, Algy. I find it preferable to having my arse striped.”
Behind them, a portly woman leaned forward and hissed, “Shhh!”
Swinburne rolled his eyes at Burton, as if to say, Good grief, somebody actually wants to listen to this balderdash!
The balderdash in question was spouting from the mouth of Mr. Thomas Lake Harris, who was standing on a podium in Almack’s Assembly Rooms addressing a crowd of about three hundred, Burton and Swinburne among them.
He was a tall man, with low black eyebrows, a long black beard, and a sallow countenance. His eyes blazed intensely as he declaimed, “At this moment, drew near a Spirit who represented a Mercury or messenger, though indeed as to form he was beautiful as fabled Endymion. He appeared in the flower of his youth, and moved as if borne on the breath of the swift electric atmosphere. I heard a sound as of melodious voices, and in a moment beheld a multitude gathered together, assembled by proclamation; the character of which was, that news from Earth was permitted to be uttered through a man who, as to his body, was a resident of the natural world, but who, as to his spirit, was elevated into their society. These spirits all appeared to be in the acknowledgement of one Lord God. The beginning of all things they acknowledged to be not in Nature, but in the Divine Ability of One Eternal Spirit.”
“Hogwash, phooey, and bunkum,” Swinburne muttered, imitating Harris’s American accent. “How much more of this has my sore bum to endure?”
“You’ve no one to blame but yourself,” Burton noted.
Swinburne giggled. “Swish! Thwack! Swish! Thwack! Utterly delicious!”
The woman behind him leaned forward again and said, “Sir, if you persist in talking through Mr. Harris’s presentation, I shall have little choice but to apply my umbrella to the top of your head.”
“Madam,” Swinburne responded, “I should prefer the other end, and a weapon with a little more bite.”
“Well!” the woman exclaimed indignantly. “I never did!”
“No matter, for Betsy already has!”
Burton pushed his companion to his feet. “Come on, Algy. I think we’ve heard enough from Mr. Harris for now.”
“I’d heard enough five minutes after he started,” Swinburne complained as they edged through onlookers to the side of the auditorium. They moved along the wall until they came to a door, passed through it into a side hall, and followed it to the double doors that opened into the club bar.
A couple of minutes later, they settled at a table, each with a pint of beer. Burton took a long draught. The previous day’s dose of Saltzmann’s had worn off, leaving him thirsty.
“I’ve arranged with the manager for us to meet Mr. Harris when he finishes,” he said. “We’ll wait here. I find a glass of beer much easier to swallow than all that hokum about angels.”
“Not half,” Swinburne enthused.
“
I hope he’ll be our key to unlock the Enochians’ door, but as soon as we’ve had a poke around enemy territory, we’ll then do the same at Battersea Power Station, as a matter of urgency. I trust you’re set for a long night.”
They’d consumed two pints each by the time the audience filed out of the assembly room. The bar began to fill up with club members and was soon noisy and wreathed in tobacco smoke.
Almack’s manager entered with Harris, spotted Burton, and ushered the American over. He introduced them, then made a polite withdrawal, his presence being required elsewhere.
“Well now,” Harris said, in a nasal New York accent, “the Nile, hey? That’s quite something, Burton; yes, sir, it sure is! I gotta tell you, I’m a big admirer of yours. I’ve read your books, an’ you don’t beat about the bush like the rest of the English. I like a straight-talkin’ man. You’re a fella after my own heart.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harris. Would you join us for a beverage?”
“Sure, I’d be happy to. Whisky. A large one. All that speechifyin’ has left me dry.”
Burton called a pot-boy over and ordered the whisky and two more beers.
“I’ll take a beer as well,” Harris put in.
“And I’ll have a whisky, too,” Swinburne added.
“Say, Swinburne, what business are you in?”
“I’m a poet, sir.”
“Is that so? I do a little in that line myself. Whaddya think of this?” Harris spread his arms wide and recited, in too loud a voice:
To God be praise! This happy work is done:
It spreads towards man the Solar Angel’s pinions.
My mind conceived this poem of the sun
Long years ago, when all the world’s dominions
In clouds of fantasy were veiled; while death
Held empire in man’s universal breath.
Swinburne glanced at Burton. “That’s—um—very interesting, Mr. Harris. Am I then mistaken in my assumption that limericks are the principle form of verse in America?”
“Limericks, sir?”
“Quite so. A spiritual man from Rhode Island, had an uncanny knack to beguile and, seduce lovely women, and leave their heads swimmin’, but he—”
“Mr. Harris,” Burton interrupted hastily, “I’m intrigued by your thesis concerning the nature of angels. Have you been contacted directly?”
“Yup. I’m blessed with vivid dreams, Burton. Blessed is the word. The Lily Queen has revealed much of the true nature of existence to me.”
“Ah, yes, the Lily Queen. She is your wife, if I’m not mistaken?”
“My spirit wife, sir. She exists in Lilistan, the interspace inhabited by the angel folk, and has so far borne me two celestial children.”
Harris had turned to face Burton. Behind his back, Swinburne waggled a forefinger against his temple, stuck his tongue out, and crossed his eyes. Burton tried to ignore him, a task made easier by the arrival of fresh drinks.
“Good health, sir,” Burton toasted.
“Yours, too,” Harris responded. He downed the whisky in one, picked up his pint, and half-emptied it in a single swig. “You see, Burton, we ain’t alone in the universe. All the planets that circle our sun are inhabited by spiritual beings, and there are Lunarians on the far side of our moon who remember Oriana, the world where evil originated, an’ which the moon once orbited.”
“I see,” Burton said.
“This was revealed to you during dreams?” Swinburne asked. “Do you perhaps take anything to help you sleep?”
“It was, an’ I don’t. The thing of it is, if a man could attune himself to the rhythmic chord that leads the harmonic vibrations between these worlds, why, he could live forever. Immortality, Burton! How does that sound, hey?”
“Quite difficult to grasp.”
“Incomprehensible,” Swinburne agreed. “My hat! You appear to have finished your beer already, Mr. Harris. As have I. Shall we order another?”
“Sure, but what say you we get out of this place?” Harris said. “Never mix work with pleasure, that’s my motto. This place is work. Meetin’ you gents is a pleasure.”
“The Red Lion on Derby Street isn’t far from here,” Burton said. “Shall we?”
This was agreed, and the trio settled up at the bar, retrieved their hats, coats, and canes from the cloakroom, and exited into King Street.
The day had been cold and damp, with rain-heavy clouds filling the sky. Now the atmosphere was saturated with water—too thin to be classified as rain, too thick to qualify as mist. Street lamps flared, particles of their orange light seemingly borne aloft by the droplets and sent swirling around the three men as they passed along St. James’s Street and turned left into Pall Mall.
“I should very much enjoy hearing you speak again,” Burton said to Harris as they entered Whitehall. “I understand you’ll be addressing the League of Enochians Gentlemen’s Club tomorrow. Do you think I might attend?”
“Phew!” the American exclaimed. “If it was up to me, for sure, but the Enochians are an exclusive set, Burton, an’ as their guest, I ain’t got the right to invite another.”
“I understand.” Burton waited until a loudly clanking steam-horse had passed by, then went on, “May I ask how you were approached by them?”
“By the Enochians? I got a letter last May from a fella named Laurence Oliphant. An insightful guy—he’d seen the importance of my philosophy and wrote that he recognised me as the twelfth messenger of God.”
“Received in America in May,” Swinburne muttered. “So probably posted in March or thereabouts.”
“The Enochians’ president, Doctor Kenealy, then arranged for me to come here.”
They arrived at the Red Lion, found a corner table, and ordered more drinks.
For the next three hours, Burton plied Harris with alcohol and gave every indication that he was fast becoming an ardent admirer of the spiritualist, artfully hiding his true opinion that the man was a conceited—and only partially sane—nincompoop.
It was near midnight before Harris succumbed to the considerable amount he’d imbibed. Burton picked his moment, then asked, “What are the arrangements for tomorrow? Perhaps I could have dinner with you before you go to the Enochians’ Club?”
“’Fraid not. I have to meet a fella named Count Sobieski outside Saint Martin’s Church at eight o’clock. Gotta work on my presentation beforehand. Perhaps another night, though?”
“Very well,” Burton said, silently vowing to be at the church, too, unseen, ready to follow Harris to what he suspected was a secret entrance to the club.
He nudged Swinburne. “Are you still with us, Algy?”
“Yesh,” the poet slurred. “But I shushpect I might have had one too mummy—money—many.”
“We should get you home. You, too, Mr. Harris. It sounds as if you have a busy day ahead of you.”
They stood and fumbled with their coat buttons; picked up, dropped, and retrieved their hats; tripped over their canes; and stumbled out into the night.
As they emerged into Whitehall, Harris pointed at St. Stephen’s Tower and exclaimed, “Would ya look at that! The clouds are so low you can barely see the clock. Say, though, what’s the story? Ain’t that the famous Big Ben? I’ve not heard a chime all night.”
“The bell’s cracked,” Burton explained. “They made the hammer too big. I believe they’re currently adjusting the mechanism to strike the hour on the quarter bells while the main one’s repaired. It’s the second—” He cried out and whipped his hands up to his eyes, half-blinded by the flash that suddenly burst from the top of the tower. A thunderous detonation smacked against his ears. Peering past his fingers, he saw a ball of flame pushing bricks and masonry away from the edifice. Without thinking, he knocked his companions back into the shelter of Derby Street. Debris started to rain down around them; bricks and concrete thudding and shattering on the roads and smashing through windows; metal and glass clanging and clattering; pieces of flaming wood falling like comets.
The noise pummelled them, jumbling their senses, then thick, black dust came at them like an avalanche, enveloping and blinding, filling their mouths and nostrils.
Half a brick ricocheted off the side of Harris’s head. The American slumped into Swinburne’s arms, his weight carrying the poet to the ground.
Burton crouched over them, trying to shield them with his body. Small fragments of stone thudded into his back and bounced all around. He pressed his palms to his ears but the cacophonous sound of destruction penetrated his skull, so harsh that he bellowed with the pain of it.
Finally, silence fell, only gradually giving way to individual sounds: screams; cries of alarm; shouts; police whistles; the rattle of small stones still raining down.
The explorer uncurled and stood, powder cascading off him. He coughed and spat.
“Are you hurt, Algy?”
“No, but you could pull this great lump off me.”
Burton lifted Harris from the poet and laid him on his back.
“Is he dead?” Swinburne asked.
“No. Knocked cold.”
“He’ll be disappointed. The Lily Queen might have been expecting him.”
“The angels will have to wait. Brush yourself down and help me carry him. We’ll take him to the Regency.”
They hoisted the American to his feet and got beneath his arms to support him. He was so limp he might as well have been boneless, and the difference in height between Burton and Swinburne, along with the poet’s inability to walk in a straight line, made the operation extremely awkward. However, they managed to drag him out onto Whitehall, where they stumbled to a halt and gazed in horror at the scene.
The top half of St. Stephen’s Tower had gone and what remained was a shattered and burning stump. Even from this distance, they could feel the heat of the flames. Black smoke and dust were billowing through the streets and debris was strewn everywhere. Fortunately, the lateness of the hour meant there were fewer people about than usual, but nevertheless many individuals could be seen staggering aimlessly, their faces slack with shock.
Burton and Swinburne half-carried, half-dragged Harris northward past the government buildings, then turned right into Whitehall Place in order to rest on the steps of the Royal Geographical Society. They watched policemen and detectives pouring out of Scotland Yard.
