He rewound his lantern. Its glare threw everything into stark relief, the light somehow feeling like a terrible intrusion.
A full-length portrait of Sir Henry Tichborne hung over the wide fireplace. He was pictured with three hunting dogs at his feet, a riding crop in one hand, and a tricorn hat in the other. He wore a long beard and a severe and haughty expression.
Burton raised the lantern higher, looked at the hard, cold face, and stepped back.
Sir Henry's disapproving eyes seemed to follow him and the king's agent felt himself gripped by a curious sense of disquietude.
The back of his neck prickled.
“What events did you set in motion, you old goat?” he asked softly.
A reply came from behind: a low, quiet note from the piano, as if a string had been gently plucked.
Burton froze. The chord lingered in the air. Chill fingers tickled his spine as the sound faded with dreadful slowness.
He twisted to face the instrument and saw that he was alone in the room.
He breathed out. The expelled air clouded in front of his face.
To his left, there was a closed door. Something—he knew not what—drew his attention to it, and as he looked, he jumped, and his lantern swayed, causing shadows to jerk over the walls and ceiling. Nothing material had jolted him—just the sudden sense of a presence behind that door.
Sir Richard Francis Burton was undoubtedly a brave man but he was also superstitious and possessed a dread of darkness and the supernatural. Patrolling the gloomy house had, for him, been unsettling enough. Now, although he was faced with nothing tangible, he found himself trembling and the hairs on his head stood on end.
Taking a deep breath, suppressing the instinctive urge to run, he crept to the door and put his fingers around the brass handle. He pressed his ear against the wood. It was cold.
He could hear no movement from the other side, yet the idea that the room was occupied persisted. With great care, he squeezed the handle and began to turn it. Clenching his jaw, he braced himself and applied his shoulder to the door.
He stopped.
What was that?
Had he heard something? A voice?
“Help! Help!”
Cries from outside the house! Again they came: “Help! Help!”
The voice was familiar. Surely that was Herbert Spencer!
Releasing the handle, Burton turned away and strode rapidly across to the patio door, drew the curtain aside, opened the portal, and stepped out of the house into the still air of a clear-skied night.
Herbert was running up the slope, thick milky mist swirling around his calves.
“Is that you, Boss? Help me!”
Burton hurried forward. “Herbert! What is it? What's wrong?”
The vagrant philosopher reached him and clutched his arm. His eyes were round, his lips drawn tightly over his teeth. He was plainly terrified.
“There!” he cried, pointing back at the lake.
Burton looked and saw the vapour, glaringly white beneath the rays of the moon, crawling languidly between the boles of the hunched willows like a living, amoebic creature.
“There's nothing there!” he exclaimed. “Herbert, why—?”
“Can't you see ’em?”
“Them? Who? What?”
“There—there was figures,” the philosopher stammered. “Not in the mist, but of the mist!”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“They was wraiths!” Spencer whispered, his voice quavering.
The king's agent backed away, dragging the philosopher with him.
“What are you talking about? Why are you out here at this time of night? Have you been sleepwalking?”
“No,” Spencer croaked. “I came to—” He stopped and pointed, his eyes wide and panicked.
“There!”
Burton stared at the lake. Was that a figure moving, or just an opaque surge of vapour billowing through the cloud?
“Let's get inside,” he said.
Spencer didn't need any further persuasion. They quickly made their way up to the house, crossed the patio, entered the music room, and closed the door behind them.
They looked at each other in terror, both suddenly overpowered by a sense that the chamber was already occupied. They pressed their backs against the door and looked this way and that, peering into the corners, seeing nothing but shadows.
“Mother of God!” Herbert wheezed, his eyes bulging. “Is the devil himself in here?”
Breathing was difficult. The room was frigid.
The light of Burton's lantern reeled across it and caught and lingered in the glimmering eyes of Sir Henry Tichborne. The portrait radiated evil, and for a moment, it appeared to the king's agent that the face in the painting had changed, that it was someone else entirely, someone gaunt and evil and filled with malicious intent.
The light sank down over the surface of the picture, and for a moment the eyes blazed through the shadow, then dimmed as the illumination retreated back across the room, slithering over the floor as if the clockwork lantern were sucking it in. It flickered and died, plunging them into darkness. Only a silvery parallelogram of moonlight remained, stretched across the floor, framing the two men's shadows.
Burton's heart hammered in his chest.
As his eyes adjusted, they were drawn to the door that he'd been about to open earlier.
Its handle began to turn.
Burton stood transfixed, unaware that Spencer, too, was staring at the door.
Agonisingly, little by little, the brass handle revolved.
From a great way off, the sound of the piano chord returned, coming closer and closer, filling the room.
The piano chimed.
The door opened.
A weird figure stepped in.
Burton and his companion yelled in fright.
“My hat! What on earth's the matter?” Swinburne shrilled, for the bizarre figure was his: small, slope-shouldered, his head framed by a corona of fiery red hair. He looked on bemused as his companions collapsed against each other, panting hard. “I say! Have you been drinking? And you didn't invite me? Blessed scoundrels!”
Burton let loose a peal of near hysterical laughter, turned to the patio door, then cried out and stepped back in horror as a demonic face glared at him from the darkness outside.
It was his reflection.
“Bismillah!”
“You're as white as a sheet!” Swinburne exclaimed.
“What—what are you playing at sneaking around at this time of night?” Burton demanded, failing to suppress the tremor in his voice.
“We agreed I'd take over at three.”
“It's three already?”
“I think so. My watch has stopped.”
Burton pulled his own pocket watch from his waistcoat and looked at it. It, too, had stopped. He shook it, wound it, and shook it again. It refused to work.
He twisted the clockwork lantern, only to find that it was also broken; there was no resistance in its spring.
“Herbert,” he muttered, “what were you doing out there?”
The vagrant philosopher swallowed nervously, wiped a sleeve across his brow, and shrugged. “I—I could—couldn't get any kip on account o’ Mrs. Picklethorpe's bloomin’ snoring. Her bedchamber is next to the kitchen an’ I'm two rooms away, but sound carries strangely in that part of the house an’ I swear it sounded like her trumpetin’ were a-comin’ from the walls themselves. Anyways, I couldn't take another blasted minute of it, so I thought to go an’ check on the swans. I hoped a spot o’ night air might encourage a visit from what's-’is-name—Morpheus. I was just headin’ back to the house when them wraiths surrounded me. Fair panicked, I did!”
“Wraiths?” Swinburne asked excitedly. “What? What?”
“Herbert thought he saw figures in the mist,” Burton explained.
“Of the mist,” the philosopher corrected.
“And the knocking?” the poet enquired. “Where was that
coming from?”
“Knocking?”
“You didn't hear it? It was either from this room or the next, but it stopped when I came along the corridor.”
“Hmm,” Burton grunted. “Well, there was certainly a strange atmosphere in here and I haven't a notion how to explain it. It seems entirely normal now, though. Herbert, why don't you get yourself back to bed? There's no point in all of us losing sleep. Algy and I will have a poke around for a few minutes, then I think we'll call it a night.”
“Right you are, Boss. Blimey! I'll take the bloomin’ snorin’ over this malarkey any day o’ the week!”
An hour later, Burton was lying in his bed, trying to work out exactly what he'd experienced. Some form of mesmerism, perhaps? Or maybe an intoxicating gas, as he'd suspected at Brundleweed's? How, though, could either of those account for the sudden loss of elasticity in the springs of his watch and lantern?
Whatever the explanation, the room's malevolent aura had vanished upon Swinburne's arrival, and the two of them had encountered nothing more during their subsequent patrol.
He slept.
It wasn't until fairly late the next morning that Burton and his assistant made an appearance downstairs. They were informed by Bogle that Colonel Lushington was awaiting them in the library with the Tichborne family lawyer. Upon entering, they saw the two men standing near the fireplace and were immediately struck by the gravity of their host's expression.
“There's news,” the colonel announced. “It's bad. The Dowager Lady Henriette-Felicité passed away last night at her apartment. The one in Paris.”
“The cause of death?” Burton asked.
“Heart stopped. Failed. Old age, no doubt. She'd been ailing for a considerable period.”
He looked from his two guests to the other man and back again.
“Forgive me, I should make introductions. Polite thing to do. Ahem! Forgot myself. This gentleman is Mr. Henry Hawkins. A lawyer. He'll be defending the family against the Claimant. Mr. Hawkins, may I present Sir Richard Burton and Mr.—um—um—um—”
“Algernon Swinburne.” Swinburne sighed.
“A pleasure to meet you,” said Hawkins, stepping forward to shake their hands. He was an average-sized and average-looking individual whose bland features were at odds with his reputation, for Burton had heard of “Hanging Hawkins,” and knew him for a man whose cross-examinations in court were probing in the extreme—“savage,” some might say. A hint of this came with Hawkins's next comment: “Of course, the dowager's death is more a blow to our opponent than it is to us. A mother's recognition would be virtually indestructible in court, were it demonstrated in person. Now, though, we can reduce it to the status of hearsay.”
“Was the man who claims to be her son present at her death?” Burton enquired.
“No. He's already in London. He'll be arriving here tomorrow afternoon.”
“What about Sir Alfred?” Swinburne put in. “Has he been informed?”
Colonel Lushington nodded. “About an hour ago. I'm afraid it didn't do much for his nerves. Jankyn is attending to him. How was your midnight patrol? Did you encounter the mice—that is to say, Lady Mabella?”
“Pardon me, what's this?” Hawkins interrupted.
“Oh, just some nonsense about the Tichborne family curse,” Lushington answered. “Utter tosh and balderdash, without a doubt. Young Alfred has got it into his head that the house is haunted. By a ghost, be damned! A ghost!”
“My word! We mustn't let him mention it in court. He'll lose all credibility!”
“What if it's true?” Swinburne asked.
Burton jabbed his fingers into the poet's ribs.
“To answer your question, Colonel,” said the king's agent, “no, I didn't see a ghostly woman floating about last night. Nor did I expect to. There was, however, a rather remarkable mist flowing past the house, down the slope, and into the lake.”
“Ah, yes,” said Lushington. “It's a fairly common occurrence. It's a mist, plain and simple. It arises in the Crawls and flows down into the hollow. Covers the lake.”
“Intriguing!” Burton exclaimed. “It only forms over the Crawls? Not the other wheat fields?”
“That's so. Absolutely the case. Odd, now that I think about it. I don't know why. Something to do with the lie of the land, perhaps? Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“Neither has Mr. Hawkins. Come to think of it, neither have I. I suggest we have a late breakfast. What do you say? A cup of tea, at least? Good for the stamina.”
Later that day, while Lushington and Hawkins worked on their legal case in the library, Burton and Swinburne sat in the smoking room and considered the Tichborne poem.
“I'm pretty certain that Eye blacker than Lady Mabella's is a reference to the Eye of Nāga,” Burton announced.
“I don't disagree,” said Swinburne. He imitated Lushington: “Or do I? I don't know!”
“Shut up, Algy.”
“Certainly. Or certainly not, as the case may be.”
Burton sighed and shook his head despairingly, then continued: “And it seems that a considerable part of the first stanza might be a reference to the Crawls.”
Swinburne nodded: “My Lady's round and By her damnéd charity bound. Do you think the tears that weep might be the mist?”
“I don't know. That doesn't feel quite right to me. What about this line: One curse here enfolds another?”
“Her curse was that the annual dole must continue in perpetuity or else the Tichborne family would find itself without an heir,” Swinburne noted. “But you'll remember that the dole itself attracted hordes of beggars to the estate. Maybe that's one curse wrapped in another?”
“Possibly. But Vexations in the poor enables? Vexations? Why would the poor respond to a gift of free flour with vexation? No, Algy, it won't do.”
The king's agent struck a lucifer and applied it to his third Manila cheroot of the day. Swinburne wrinkled his nose.
“If the diamond were buried beneath the Crawls,” Burton mused, “then Consume if thou wouldst uncover becomes a directive: eat the wheat to uncover the treasure.”
“Or burn it.”
“Indeed. However, it's the beginning of the growing season and I doubt the family will give us permission to destroy their crop, not least because it would make it impossible to pay the dole. No harm in having a poke around out there, though. Besides, a breath of fresh air will do us good.”
“For sure,” Swinburne agreed, eyeing his friend's cigar.
Some thirty minutes later, the king's agent and his assistant met beneath the portico at the entrance to the house. They were wearing tweed suits, strong boots, and cloth caps, and each carried a cane. As they descended the steps, a voice hailed them from the doorway: “I say, you chaps, do you mind if I join you?”
It was Sir Alfred, his white hair stark against his dark mourning suit. His face was gaunt, his eyes red.
“Not at all,” Burton answered. “My condolences, Sir Alfred. We heard the news earlier.”
“My mother lived only for my brother,” the baronet said as they stepped down to the carriageway and started across it. “When he was lost, she began to age very rapidly. The last time I saw her, she was extremely frail. If the bounder who claims to be Roger really is who he says he is, then I blame him for her demise. If he isn't—and I still maintain that he isn't—then I blame him doubly. I feel certain that she knew in her heart of hearts that the cad is nothing but a wicked imposter. She died of disappointment, I'm convinced of it.”
“Yet she passed away maintaining that her eldest son had returned?”
“She did. The pitiful wish of a broken woman. Where are we going—just for a stroll?”
“I want to have a closer look at the Crawls. I'm curious as to why a mist arises from them but not from the adjoining fields.”
“Ah, yes. Mysterious, isn't it? I've often wondered myself.”
The three men reached the edge of the wheat field and starte
d to skirt around its right-hand border, walking alongside a low hedgerow.
“A promising crop this year,” said Tichborne. “Look how green it is!”
“Now that you mention it,” Burton said, thoughtfully, “it appears that the Crawls are the greenest of all your fields.”
“Yes, it's ironic, don't you think? The best wheat we grow, we have to give away!”
The king's agent stopped walking and looked around at the landscape.
“I don't see any obvious geographical explanation. All the fields on this incline are equally exposed to whatever weather conditions prevail. If the Crawls dipped down slightly, I might suspect an underground water source, but in fact, if anything, they appear to hump up somewhat.”
Swinburne squatted, using his cane for balance, and peered at the horizon.
“You're right,” he said. “It's barely noticeable, but this part of the slope is definitely a little bit higher. My goodness, what a geographer's eye you have, Richard!”
“Enough to know that something's not quite right here. At this low altitude, mist should form in hollows, not on the raised part of a slope. The only explanation for the vapour is that there's a warm spring beneath our feet. Yet, as I say, it should result in a slight dip in the incline, not the opposite. Let's walk on.”
They hiked to the top of the field and continued on into the one beyond.
“My hat! The Lady Mabella crawled all this way!” Swinburne exclaimed.
“Driven by the devil.” Tichborne shuddered. “Did you hear her knocking last night?”
“No,” said Burton, quickly, before Swinburne could open his mouth. “Did you?”
“I'm afraid I rather overdid it at supper,” the baronet answered. “I was oblivious to all from the moment my head hit the pillow—wasn't conscious of a thing until I awoke this morning.”
“Something rather peculiar occurred in the music room. A note was struck at the piano—”
“—But no one was there,” Tichborne finished. “I bet that put the wind up you.”
“It did. It's happened before, then?”
“For as long as I can remember. Three or four nights a week—bong!—for no apparent reason. Always the same note, too.”
“B below middle C.”