A thin chain, attached to an iron ring set in the middle of the floor, snaked across to where a man lay on the bed. It was joined to a manacle that encircled his left ankle.
He was dressed only in ragged trousers and an undershirt, and was dreadfully thin. His left arm ended in a bandaged stump just below the elbow. His face was encased in an iron mask, featureless but for four horizontal slits, one for each eye, one level with his nostrils, and one for the mouth.
Tomas Castro.
The man struggled to a sitting position and looked up at them.
“Ce qui maintenant?” he whispered huskily. “Is there to be more torment? Who is this? I have not seen him before.”
He spoke with a French accent.
Burton turned to Nightingale. “Follow me.”
He walked along the platform until he came to a ladder and descended to the chamber floor.
Castro rose weakly to his feet as Burton approached.
“Please, don't exert yourself,” the king's agent said. “Remain seated. You are Sir Roger Tichborne, I take it?”
“Tichborne? Mon dieu! You are the first to call me that in a long time. It has been Castro, only Castro.” His voice sounded hollow behind the mask.
Burton took the chair and placed it near the bed. He sat down. Tichborne fell back onto the thin mattress and said: “But you address me as ‘Sir.’ Is it that I have inherited the baronetcy?”
“No little time ago. I'm afraid your uncle and father both died within a week of each other back in ’54, shortly before you were committed. It was reported that you were lost at sea whilst voyaging back to England. Your brother Alfred took the title. I regret to inform you that he, too, is dead. He was murdered by your enemies earlier this year.”
“Alfred,” Tichborne croaked. “Mon cher frère!” He raised his hand and rested the front of his mask against it. “And this year, it is?” came his muffled voice.
“It is now September of 1862.”
There was a moment of silence, broken when the prisoner began to quietly weep.
Burton leaned forward and placed a hand on the man's upper arm.
“Sir, there has been a vast and terrible conspiracy against you. I am trying to untangle the web, to discover who has spun it and why. It would help considerably if you could tell me your story. Do you have the strength?”
Tichborne raised his head. “Then you mean to help me?”
“I will do everything in my power. My name is Richard Burton. I am an agent of the king.”
“No, wait,” said Tichborne. “Non. Non. It cannot be. Non. This, it is a trick. That—” he pointed at Nightingale “—that fiend is one of the conspirators. If she is with you, then you are with them!”
“You are mistaken, sir. This woman, who you may know as Sister Camberwick, is, in fact, named Florence Nightingale. She has been operating under a deep mesmeric trance. She knows neither what she has done nor why. She is as much a victim as you are.”
“Ce n'est pas possible! And now? Why is she not screaming for help?”
“Because I myself have a modicum of talent as a mesmerist and have gained control of her.”
Tichborne sat silently, gazing at the nurse. Burton could see his wet, lidless eyes shining through the slits of the mask.
“My story,” the baronet whispered. “My story.” He looked at Burton. “Very well. I shall tell it. Where would you like me to begin?”
“With your voyage to South America—but we have little time, Sir Roger, so broad strokes, if you please.”
“Bien. I sailed in ’54. I had been wooing a distant cousin, Kattie—”
“Katherine Doughty,” Burton interjected.
“Ah! Oui. Elle vit?”
“Yes, she lives. She is well.”
Tichborne nodded, paused, and asked: “Married?”
“Yes.”
“Oui. Oui. Naturellement.” He looked down, ran his fingers over the stump of his left arm, looked up, and went on: “Kattie's parents, they were not in favour of me, and I cannot blame them. I was young and irresponsible. I felt I had to prove myself to them, and got it into my head that I would go to Chile to follow in my grandfather's footsteps, for there is a legend in the family that he discovered a fabulous diamond in that country, and though no one has ever seen it—and the legend is no doubt untrue—it fired my imagination. What a fool I was! I arrived in Valparaiso—”
“Which is where they say you received the news that your uncle had passed away.”
“Mais non! I never did! I stayed in the port for but a day then began my journey inland toward Santiago. I eventually settled in a town named Melipilla, at the foot of the Cerro Patagua Range, which is where I suspected my grandfather had done his prospecting. I lived with the family of a man named Tomas Castro, and in his company made forays into the mountains, sometimes living in tents for many days before returning to his home.
“What happened next, monsieur, is difficult for me to explain, for my memories, they are confused. Castro and I had ventured farther into the mountains than ever before, and were both suffering from the altitude and thin air. My friend seemed to be the most affected. He began to experience wild hallucinations and became delirious. He insisted that we had displeased the secret inhabitants of the mountains by our presence, and that the only way to placate them was by sacrifice. I began to fear for my life, for he seemed to me to be losing his mind.”
“Secret inhabitants?” Burton asked. “Did he have a name for them?”
“Oui. He called them the Cherufe. He said they were the ghosts of an ancient race that had once inhabited the Earth.”
“What happened?”
“As the days passed, I was stricken by terror, not only of him, but also of the things I began to see hiding amid the rocks and undergrowth.”
“What things?”
“I am embarrassed to say. You must understand, monsieur, that they were not real. I was suffering from visions caused by an insufficiency of oxygen.”
“It's important, Sir Roger. What did you see?”
“I saw fairies, tiny people with the wings of moths, butterflies, and dragonflies. I saw them in broad daylight, and at night they came to me in my dreams. I know now that I was going insane. Certainly, Castro was, for one night, he tried to murder me. He struck me on the head and laid me on a rock. It would serve as an altar, he said. He then took a knife and went to thrust it into my heart. I rolled from the rock and we fought. He was savage, a wild beast, his eyes were filled with madness. I pushed him. He fell and cracked his skull. The blow killed him.
“The little people had gathered to watch our conflict. They terrified me, and I think, monsieur, that the fear broke my mind. I remember little else until, one day, I became aware that I was in an asylum. They called me Tomas Castro. It seems I had taken my victim's name. I protested that I was an English gentleman but they would not believe me. I was trapped in a nightmare and my sanity was a frail thing. I am sure it failed me again and again. The time I spent in that hell—it—it—”
Tichborne bent and was wracked by a great sob that shook him from head to toe. Burton held tight to the man's shoulder.
“Sir Roger, your suffering is coming to an end, I give you my word. You must hold yourself together for just a little while longer.”
“I—I apologise, Monsieur Burton. I am weak. If you had—if—”
“I understand. Pray finish your account.”
“That woman—” he nodded toward Florence Nightingale, where she stood, blank-eyed “—came to the asylum one day, sedated me, and took me away. I was brought to this place. How long I have been here, I do not know. I have seen no one but her, a Russian bitch, and a lunatic named Kenealy.”
“And these latter two, what did they want of you?”
“The diamond! Always the diamond! I said to them again and again: ‘There is no diamond, it is a myth! The story is as absurd as the legendary Tichborne curse!’ So then they wanted to know all about that, and I told them of Roger
de Tichborne and Lady Mabella and the Tichborne dole, and then—and then—”
“Yes?”
“Then they took me into a room, strapped me to a table, and sedated me. In my last moments of consciousness, I saw her, the connasse—” he jabbed a finger at Nightingale “—lean over me with a scalpel in her hand. When I awoke, she had taken my arm and my face. Mon dieu! Mon dieu!”
“I am sorry,” Burton said. “They have kept you prisoner here since then?”
“Yes, but that is not all. They visit me frequently and ask always about my life and my habits. They want to know everything! Every detail! On and on! Questions! Questions! Questions!”
“It is because they have a man masquerading as you,” Burton revealed.
“They have—what? Why?”
“Their scheme is elaborate and I'm still unsure of the ultimate motive. I shall find out, though, you can be sure of that. I will stop them, Sir Roger, and soon. When I do, you will be liberated from this frightful place. Until then, you must remain here and keep this visit of mine a secret. Can I trust you to do that?”
“Yes. Me, you can trust—but her?”
“I am going to bring Nurse Nightingale out of her trance now. I will reveal the truth to her. I believe she will work with us to secure your freedom. She's a strange woman; her dedication to medical research has driven her into ethically dubious territory in recent years, but no one can forget what she did during and after the Crimea. I believe that, at heart, she desires only the greater good.”
“I will trust your judgement, Monsieur Burton. But you cannot take me with you now?”
“If I do so, your enemies will know that I'm moving against them. They may flee before we ever learn their intentions. It's better that they remain in the dark.”
“So you wish me to stay? Truly, I don't know that I can! If I allow myself to believe that liberation is close at hand, every extra moment in this hell will seem an eternity. But no, no, I understand your reasoning. Stay, I must—and stay, I shall! What matters a few more days or weeks after all this time?”
“Good man. I must hurry now. I've already been away for too long.”
He stood and paced over to Florence Nightingale.
“You have listened to this discussion?”
“Yes,” she replied dully.
“I am going to take you through some breathing exercises. They will bring you to full awareness. You will remember everything.”
“Ah, Mr. Cribbins, at last. You've taken a deuce of a—ugh!—time!”
“My apologies, Doctor Monroe, I became fascinated by one of your unfortunates. Patient 1036 on corridor nine.”
“1036? 1036? Which one is that?”
“The gentleman who ate his mother.”
“Oh, yes. A fascinating study. We tested an interesting therapy on that one. We—ugh!—introduced him to another of our patients. A mother who ate her son.”
“And what happened?”
“They had dinner together.”
“Are you serious?”
“There were doctors in attendance, of course.”
Damien Burke stepped forward. “A most intriguing scenario, Doctor Monroe, but I feel we've already taken up far too much of your valuable time. We should be going, isn't that right, Mr. Skylark?”
“Absolutely correct, Mr. Faithfull. Do you agree, Mr. Cribbins?”
“Indeed! Indeed! My apologies, Doctor Monroe, and thank you very much indeed for allowing us to tour your fine establishment. I think it fair to say that it has made an indelible impression on all three of us.”
Monroe smiled and shook Burton's hand, then Burke's, then Hare's.
They proceeded down to the lobby and out onto the front steps. Monroe bade them a final farewell and indicated a horse-drawn carriage waiting on the driveway. “This will take you across the grounds to the main—Ugh!”
“Gate,” Burton finished.
Monroe blinked at him, pursed his lips, turned, and disappeared back into the hospital.
The king's agent looked at the sky and frowned. The atmosphere was thick and steamy, and through it, ugly smudges of smoke could be seen drifting raggedly overhead. Flakes of ash were falling.
“It's been a while since we had a London particular,” he muttered.
They climbed into the carriage and, a couple of minutes later, arrived at the big main gate, in which a smaller door was set.
They thanked the driver and tipped their hats to the guard who opened the door for them.
Sir Richard Francis Burton, Damien Burke, and Gregory Hare stepped out of the mental asylum into—madness!
London was ablaze.
At ground level, the smoke was suffocating. Hellish red and orange light flared through the swirling clouds.
“What the—”
Burton was cut off by a scream of fury. A man came tearing out of the murk, dressed only in trousers and boots, his naked upper body smeared with blood, sweat, and soot. His face was contorted with animal ferocity, and before they could react, he swung a pitchfork with vicious force into Damien Burke's upper left arm.
Burke fell sideways with a yell of pain.
Gregory Hare jumped onto the back of the attacker, snatched the pitchfork out of his hand and threw it aside, wrapped a huge forearm around the man's neck, and squeezed. Seconds later, he was lowering the limp body to the pavement.
Burton snapped back into himself. The assault had been so sudden and brutal that he'd stood frozen, disassociated.
“Damn it!” he muttered, and joined Hare on his knees at Burke's side.
“It's bad,” Burke gasped. “Broken.”
“You're losing blood. Hare, give me your cravat. We need to get a tourniquet on him right away. Don't worry, old man,” he encouraged Burke. “We'll have you fixed up in no time.”
“Mr. Hare will attend to me, Captain,” Burke responded weakly. “I recommend you draw your spine-gun and see to our defence.” He nodded at the street behind Burton.
The king's agent twisted around and saw five individuals shuffling into view. There were two men and three women. All wore dishevelled clothing and diabolical grins. Their eyes were wide and glazed.
One of the women held a dripping severed arm that had, apparently, been torn from its owner's shoulder.
She seemed to recognise the shock in Burton's eyes and responded to it by shouting: “Meat! Tichborne wants meat!” She then raised the limb to her mouth and clamped her teeth into it with a muffled giggle. The giggle turned into a gurgle as blood bubbled down over her chin.
“Your gun, sir!” Damien Burke groaned.
Burton grunted, stood, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the cactus pistol and pressed the nodule that activated it.
“Die!” said one of the approaching men. “You—upper—crust—bastards.”
The woman with the arm, distracted by the taste of blood, lost interest in Burton and his companions. She squatted on her haunches and began to rip mouthfuls of flesh from the bone, swallowing chunks of raw, bloody human meat.
Burton, sickened, wanted to look away. Instead, he raised his strange pistol and shot her in the forehead.
She collapsed onto her back and lay still with the arm across her throat.
The remaining two men and two women screamed and lurched forward, their arms outstretched, their fingers curled into claws, their eyes rolling aimlessly.
Holding his right wrist with his left hand to keep it steady, Burton shot them each in turn.
He released a shuddering breath, looked at the fallen bodies, and allowed his arms to drop to his sides. He was trembling as if in the grip of another malarial fever.
“What the hell is happening?” he muttered.
Something exploded in the distance.
He stepped back to the hospital gate and hammered upon it.
“Let us in! Hey in there! Open up!”
There was no response. The guard had apparently locked the door before returning to the main building with the carriage dr
iver.
“Help me up with him, if you would, Captain,” Hare said.
Burton lifted his hat, yanked off his wig and false beard, shoved them into a pocket, replaced his topper, and assisted Hare.
“The rioters appear to be rather more zealous than they were yesterday,” the prime minister's man noted. “Yet, equally, rather more mindless. I need to get Mr. Burke back to Whitehall. I suggest we make our way along the Lambeth Road to Saint George's Circus, and follow Waterloo Road to the bridge. What say you?”
“I say let's go.”
“I can support Mr. Burke now that he's up, Captain. You keep that pistol handy.”
Burton nodded and began to move slowly through the eye-watering fumes, with his companions following behind.
Beams of light swept over them from above. A huge police rotorship descended, its turbines roaring, steam belching from its exhausts. The down-draught from its rotors cleared the street of smoke, and Burton saw that debris and bodies were scattered all over.
“This is the police!” an amplified voice announced.
The king's agent looked up and noticed a cluster of speaking trumpets projecting down from the ship's hull.
“This is the police. Return to your homes. Stay inside and bar your doors and windows. Do not venture onto the streets. A state of emergency has been declared. Return to your homes. This is the police. Return to your homes. Remain inside.”
The mammoth flying machine slowly slid away over the rooftops. As it passed, ash-laden smoke rolled back over Burton and his colleagues.
A horse bolted past, trailing the broken shafts of a wagon behind it.
Somewhere nearby, glass smashed and rained onto the pavement.
Incoherent shouts echoed from the near and far distance.
Cautiously, they moved on.
Ahead, a male voice pleaded: “Help me! Oh, sweet Lord, help me! No! Please! Though I walk in the valley of death I shall—”
It was cut off.
A broken walking stick came whirling out of the miasma and clattered onto the cobbles inches from Burton's feet.
Moments later, through the gloom, they saw the other half of it. One end was held in the hand of a snarling street pedlar. The other end—the broken end—had been thrust up into the base of an elderly clergyman's chin and was projecting from the top of his skull. The pedlar was holding his victim upright but released him as he saw the trio approaching. The dead man crumpled to the pavement. His murderer laughed. Froth sprayed from his mouth. He wiped his bloodied hand on his thigh.