“As for me,” Burton continued, “I've never possessed a clear idea of my function in society. I've been a soldier, a spy, a geographer, an interpreter, an explorer, an author, a surveyor, and now the king's agent, whatever the blazes that is. As for this country's gentry, I think you'll find that they mostly have a sense that life is filled with options; that, in terms of what they actually do with their time, there are few limitations.”
“Herbert used the word ‘trammelled.’ Are you suggesting that the trammelled mind is the susceptible mind?”
“Precisely.”
“Funny. I've never considered myself trammelled. Quite the opposite, in fact!”
“It's not that your mind or imagination is in any respect confined, Algy. It's simply that you've never given consideration to the notion of doing anything else. You even offered your services as my assistant because you felt the danger involved would cure your ennui and inspire greater depth in your poetry.”
“Which it has. You suspect, then, that the black diamonds somehow break down the mental structures that keep a mind channelled, which is why the working classes are suddenly feeling hard done by—they're realising that they're being cheated out of alternatives?”
“Yes. Remember the line in the poem? Vexations in the poor enables. And what about Edwin Brundleweed's story of how, the afternoon before the robbery, he suddenly and inexplicably felt dissatisfied with his lot in life?”
“But what's it all about, Richard? What's the point?”
“Judging by today's events, I'd say the point is chaos; maybe even insurgency—an assault against the very fabric of our society. I would even go so far as to say that the British Empire is under attack.”
“My hat! By a foreign power?”
“Or a budding despot. You understand now why John Speke can probably be discounted?”
Swinburne nodded. “Unless it's the Prussians. You did say he'd gone to Prussia. On the other hand, our ghost is Russian.”
Burton asked Admiral Lord Nelson to top up their cups from the coffee pot and they sat in silence for a few moments.
“Are we on the brink of a revolution?” Swinburne whispered. “Think of it! A reign of terror could descend on us just as it did on France. We might end up under the rule of an abominable tyrant like Napoleon!”
“Or we might not,” Spencer muttered. “Would it be so bad if the workin’ man—an’ woman, I might add—gained some measure of power? Don't you think it's becomin’ a matter of urgency that they do?”
“Maybe so,” Burton replied, thinking of Countess Sabina and his subsequent dream: a transition begins—a melting of one great cycle into another. “But do we really want such a change to be forced upon us by an external power? I find it inconceivable that they might be doing it for our own good!”
He flicked the stub of his cheroot into the fireplace, stood, and paced back across to the window.
“We must get to the root of this.”
His eyes scanned the road below. Two labourers were trailing along behind a gentleman, mocking him relentlessly. Despite this scene, Montagu Place was unusually quiet for the hour.
“In order to strengthen our campaign against the enemy, Algy, we must first strengthen ourselves. I've resisted it in the past, but I think it's time I mesmerised you.”
“Really?”
“Really. I want to see whether I can stop you becoming a Tichborne supporter every time the Claimant is nearby. If I can't, the only other option is for you to stay permanently drunk, and I'd rather avoid that.”
Swinburne puffed out his cheeks and expelled a breath with a pop. “Oh, it wouldn't be so bad! Besides, you've always refused to exercise your mental magnetism on me before!”
“True,” Burton affirmed. “I was concerned that your excitable disposition might react in an unpredictable manner. However, seeing as this affair is making you unpredictable anyway, my former caution seems somewhat misplaced. I shall employ a Sufi technique to fortify my own psychic defences, too. Then I have a task for you.”
“Good! What?”
“The Rake connection interests me. We've yet to identify their new leader. I want you to dig around—but keep out of mischief.”
“I'll talk to my Libertine chums. I say, though—Rakes and Tichborne—it seems a contradiction, doesn't it? If our mysterious opponent is attempting to stir up the working classes, why employ Rakes, who epitomise the idea of the insouciant aristo?”
“My thought exactly!”
Swinburne suddenly froze and looked at his friend with a puzzled expression.
“That wraith,” he said. “The one by the chaunter. You saw it?”
“Clearly!”
“For a moment, it seemed to manifest rather more solidly and took on the appearance of a tall bearded man. I swear he was wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, too. The thing of it is, I feel I've seen him somewhere before.”
“You recognised the manifestation as an actual person?”
“Yes. That wisp of steam resembled someone whose path I've crossed at some point, I'm sure of it, but for the life of me I can't recall whom. The name ‘Boyle’ or ‘Foyle’ springs to mind.”
“Keep thinking on it, Algy—it could be important.”
Spencer rubbed a hand over his bald scalp and said, “Is there anythin’ I can do to help, Boss?”
“Thank you, Herbert, there is. Your immunity and your—if you don't mind me saying so—disreputable appearance, enable you to wander through the thick of it without being molested. I'd like you to keep an eye on things at street level, see how widespread the apparitions are, and, if possible, find out where they're most numerous.”
“Right you are!”
“First, though, I'd like you to return to Miss Mayson's to make a purchase on my behalf.”
He explained further and supplied the philosopher with the requisite amount of money.
Swinburne piped up: “It's a quarter to eight, Richard. What say you we toddle on over to the Cannibal Club for a natter with Monckton Milnes? He usually has a better handle on what the Rakes are up to than I do. You can mesmerise me afterward.”
“An excellent idea. We'll take the penny-farthings. I don't fancy walking the streets at night, not while the rank and file are up in arms.”
Half an hour later, Herbert Spencer descended the steps of 14 Montagu Place and headed off toward SPARTA on Orange Street.
Meanwhile, Burton and Swinburne left the study and went down the stairs to Mrs. Angell's domain. While Swinburne waited by the back door, Burton tapped lightly on the entrance to the old lady's parlour. A voice called from within. He poked his head into the room beyond.
“I thought I'd check to see how you are,” he said. “I hope you didn't tire yourself cooking for us. It was very kind of you to do so.”
“I'm fine, Sir Richard. No need to worry. A bruised hip, nothing more. How's little Elsie?”
“Doctor Steinhaueser gave her a sedative. She's asleep in the guest room and certainly won't wake up before morning. I sent a message to her parents and they'll come to pick her up soon. You needn't do anything more this evening. Just rest, my dear, and if you want anything, ring for Admiral Lord Nelson.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Burton returned to Swinburne and they went out to the garage. A few moments later they steered their penny-farthings into Wyndham Mews and set off toward Leicester Square.
The evening sky was clear, a dark and deepening blue, with three or four stars already twinkling. It was warm. A slight, directionless breeze stirred the air lazily.
At ground level, ribbons of steam twisted slowly across the surface of the road, occasionally rising up like serpents poised to strike. They swirled away from passing traffic then curled back inward.
There were far fewer vehicles on the streets than usual.
“Where is everyone?” Swinburne called over the racket of his penny-farthing's chugging engine.
“Sheltering behind locked doors, I imagine,” Burton respond
ed. “Or resting after a hard day's rioting!”
“By golly, what a lot of broken windows! It looks as if a tornado passed through town!”
“Watch where you steer. There might be debris in the road. Hey! Where are you going?”
“This way, it's a short cut!” the poet shrilled, suddenly veering off the main street and into a narrow lane.
“Blast it, Algy, what are you up to?”
“Follow me!”
The steam proved to be much thicker in the backstreets; a dense milky pall, reminiscent of that which rose from the Crawls in the grounds of Tichborne House. The top of the cloud was almost level with the saddles of the velocipedes—about the same height as the top of an average man's head—and the two penny-farthings, as they clattered through it, left a widening wake behind them, exactly as if they were steering through a liquid.
Gas lamps flared, casting sharp shadows on the sides of the buildings and walls on either side of the lane, and making the top of the mist glaringly luminescent.
“Slow down, Algy! I can't see the surface of the road! Are you sure you know where we're going?”
“Yes, don't worry! I've been this way many a time!”
“Why?”
“For Verbena Lodge!”
“The brothel?”
“Yes!”
“I might have—” Burton's teeth clacked together as his vehicle bounced over a pothole “—known!”
They turned right into a less well-lit street, then left into another, and immediately found themselves in the midst of a disturbance. Yells and screams rose out of the cloud, women's shouts and men's protestations.
There came a loud report, almost like a gunshot, and Swinburne suddenly vanished.
The king's agent saw the small rear wheel of his assistant's velocipede fly upward before dropping back into the mist. He heard the machine's engine race, cough, splutter, and die.
He squeezed his brake levers and swung down from his vehicle, plunging into the cloud.
“Algy? Did you hit something? Are you all right?”
“Over here, Richard! I—”
Crack!
“Yow!”
Burton moved toward the raised voices, peering into the murk. Were those figures just ahead?
“Algernon?” he called.
“Gah!” came the response.
A man ran out of the rolling vapour. He was dressed in nothing but a ripped and bloodied shirt, a top hat, and a pair of socks held up by gaiters. “She's bloody insane!” he wailed, and sped past.
Another gentleman followed, barefoot and buttoning up his trousers. “Get out of here! The strumpet is spitting feathers!”
A woman in a floral dressing gown hurried into view and shouted after them: “Oy! Sir George! Mr. Fiddlehampton! Come back! Sirs! Sirs! You ain't paid the bleedin’ Governess!”
She looked at Burton. “You a bloody rozzer, or what? ’Cos if you are, you can bleedin’ well stuff it.”
“I'm not the police. What's all that noise about? Who's screaming?”
Crack!
“Yow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ha ha!”
That was Algy!
“What's happening? Answer me!”
The girl shrugged and gestured over her shoulder. “It's Betsy, ain't it? She's gone bloody loopy. ’Ere, if ya ain't a rozzer, maybe we could—”
Burton pushed past her and strode forward until he found himself mingling with a small crowd of semi-clad men and girls who'd gathered in a wide ring around a curvaceous brunette. She was heavily made-up, and wore little more than a tight black whalebone bodice, French bloomers, and high-heeled boots.
In her left hand she held a whip, the end of which was coiled around the neck of a man kneeling meekly behind her wearing nothing but underpants. She had a second whip in her right hand, and with this, she was lashing at a small figure that hopped, jerked, and danced before her.
It was Algernon Swinburne.
Crack!
The leather thong coiled around the poet's hindquarters.
“Ouch! Ouch! Hah, yes! But really, Betsy, what do you think—”
Crack!
It slashed at his waist, ripping his shirt and slicing through his belt.
“Woweee! No! Ow! Ow!—do you think you are doing with that—”
Crack!
His trousers slid to his ankles.
“Narrgh! Oof! Ha ha ha!—doing with that poor gentleman?”
Burton glanced at the woman's prisoner. He looked again, and recognised him: it was the Chancellor of the Exchequer, William Gladstone.
“Mr. Gladstone!” he called, pushing past prostitutes and angry customers. “What are you doing?”
“Shut up!” snapped the whip-wielding woman, who Swinburne had addressed as Betsy.
“It's all right, Richard!” the poet panted. “I have the situation under control.”
“So I see,” Burton replied sarcastically.
“Who are you, sir!” the kneeling politician demanded haughtily.
“Sir Richard Burton.”
“I said shut up!” Betsy ordered.
“Palmerston's swashbuckler?”
“Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that, but—”
Crack!
Burton cried out and fell to one knee, clutching his head, feeling his scalp open up above the left ear. Blood dripped through his fingers.
Crack!
Leather encircled his forearm and neck, tightened cruelly, ripped his sleeve, and slid away. The explorer toppled to the cobbles and quickly rolled aside as the lash sliced through the air again and smacked loudly against the road beside him.
“Hey! I say!” Swinburne shouted. “Don't flog him! Flog me!”
“Be quiet!” Betsy commanded.
“Yes,” said Burton, scrambling to his feet, “be quiet, Algy.”
Above the general hubbub, there sounded the clank and rattle of an approaching litter-crab.
The crowd thinned as men slipped away into the mist.
“Burton,” called Gladstone. “Do not misjudge what you witness here. I am present simply to rehabilitate these fallen women.”
“In you undergarments, sir?”
“They stole my clothes!”
Betsy pulled her lips back over her teeth and hissed: “Oppressor! Hypocrite! Conspirator!”
“Betsy, dear,” said Swinburne, soothingly, “the middle of the street is no place for a discussion about—about—by the way, what is it we're discussing?”
“Pervert!”
Crack!
“Argh! Yowch! You mean poet!”
“For pity's sake,” Burton growled impatiently. He took three long strides and grabbed the prostitute by the wrists. She let out a howl of fury and started to struggle, biting and kicking.
“Algy! Pull your bloody pants up and help me!”
Swinburne hoisted his trousers up to his waist, held them with one hand, shuffled over, and pulled the thong from around Gladstone's neck.
“I'm married,” the politician told him earnestly. “I've never been guilty of an act of infidelity.”
“You may tell that to the marines—” the poet grinned “—but the sailors won't believe you. There. You're free. I suggest you leg it before the police get here.”
“The police!” Gladstone exclaimed in horror, and without a backward glance, he jumped to his bare feet and took off.
“I'd love to see how he gets home,” said Swinburne.
“Damn it!” Burton yelled as Betsy sank her teeth into his wrist. He pushed her from him and backed away, with Swinburne at his side. The woman, with a whip in either hand, spat and snarled like a wild animal.
The crowd had dispersed—the men running off, the women retreating into the brothel.
Crack!
The tip of a whip flicked through the skin of Burton's forehead. He staggered. Blood dribbled into his eyes.
Betsy circled the two men. “Tichborne is innocent!” she said.
The bulky grey metallic form of the litter-crab l
oomed out of the mist behind her, its eight legs thumping against the road. From beneath its belly, twenty-four thin arms extended downward, flicking back and forth, picking rubbish from the road and depositing it into the mechanism's flaming maw to be incinerated.
“Move aside, madam,” Burton advised.
“Why don't you keep your fat mouth shut?”
“Betsy, there's a litter-crab right behind you,” Swinburne shrilled, urgently.
Betsy giggled insanely. “Stupid bloody toffs.”
“You're going to be—” Burton began.
The prostitute let out a piercing cry and flicked her whip up to strike. Burton flinched in anticipation, but even as he did so, the tip of the girl's weapon flew back and tangled with one of the collector arms under the lumbering machine. The thong was yanked violently, jerking her off her feet. She went sprawling backward and rolled under the advancing crab. The twenty-four metal arms pummelled and thrashed at her. She screeched and writhed and fainted. Seconds later, the litter-crab froze as the fail-safe system activated, a valve clicked open on its back, and steam whistled out at high pressure. The emergency siren started to wail.
Burton stepped over to the machine, bending to peer at the prone body beneath.
“Is she dead?” asked Swinburne, raising his voice over the noise.
“No, just scrapes and bruises.”
The poet gave a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness! She's one of my favourites.”
“Still?”
Swinburne nodded, smiled, and gave a shrug.
His trousers dropped.
“Don't shrug again until you have a new belt,” Burton advised. “Come on, let's get away from this bloody racket. The girl is already coming round and the crab's siren will attract a constable soon enough. We'll let the police sort this one out. I've had quite enough of it!”
They returned to their penny-farthings, restarted the engines, and steered past the hulking street cleaner.
“Ow! Hah! Yes! Ooh!” Swinburne exclaimed. “My hat, Richard! These boneshakers play the merry devil with freshly striped buttocks!”
“Spare me the details.”
They rode out onto a main road.
“It confirms your—ouch!—theory, though,” said the poet.
“What does?”
“The girls in Verbena—ah!—Lodge are all victims of the usual—argh!—sad process. You know the routine, they worked as maids, were seduced by—ooh! Ha!—their masters, fell pregnant, and were coldly thrown out onto the streets to fend for themselves.”