“And you, Constable? How are you faring?”
“I've had a throbbing skull since this chaos began but I'll survive. Is that the carriage I hear?”
“I believe so. Will Burke and Hare be taken care of?”
“Yes, Captain, Sergeant Slaughter will get them to where they need to go.”
Burton turned to Palmerston's men, both of whom were conscious now, both slumped against the side of a tollbooth.
“I'm going to leave you in Sergeant Slaughter and Constable Bhatti's capable hands, fellows.”
“Right you are, sir,” Damien Burke said. “Incidentally, we never got the chance to ask: was our mission successful?”
“It was. My thanks to you both.”
“Good luck, Captain.”
Burton gave a nod of his head, slapped Bhatti's shoulder, nodded to Slaughter, and ran off into the swirling haze. He sprinted to the end of the bridge, past constables who, having learned of his presence, allowed him through the cordon, then descended the steps to the Albert Embankment, which he followed eastward.
The foul stench of the Thames enveloped him as he ran, the exertion causing him to gulp lungfuls of the poisonous, particle-laden air. He started to cough, his eyes and nose streamed, and when he reached the end of Middle Temple Lane, he stopped, bent double, and spewed black vomit into the gutter.
His head was spinning and his chest wheezed horribly, reminding him of Isambard Kingdom Brunel's creaking bellows. He spat, trying to rid his mouth of the foul taste of ash, bile, and pollutants.
He pushed on.
Time and again he saw wraiths but only two actual men tried to accost him and both went down in an instant with cactus spines in their thighs.
He reached Farringdon and moved in a northerly direction along the thoroughfare, away from the reek of the river. There were fewer buildings ablaze here and the smoke cleared somewhat, allowing him a better view of the abandoned street.
A runner went past him, a blur of grey. He saw more of the dogs speeding back and forth. He guessed they were carrying messages between police stations; the force made extensive use of the postal system.
There were just a few people stumbling about, looking dazed and bewildered, barely conscious of their surroundings. He shot a man who lurched at him, but the others left him alone. Then it dawned on him that every tavern he'd passed appeared full, each producing the sounds of merriment and arguments, songs, shouts, and laughter. Obviously, now that the evening was drawing in, the rioters were taking shelter and refreshment, preparing to see the night through with copious amounts of alcohol. He wondered whether it would loosen the grip of whatever was influencing them, as it had with Swinburne.
He entered Fleet Street and had progressed but a few yards when he spotted Herbert Spencer standing in the shelter of a doorway.
“Boss!” the vagrant philosopher exclaimed. “I weren't expectin’ to see you!”
“Hallo, Herbert. Where's Algernon?”
“In there,” Spencer replied, pointing at an ancient tavern. The sign above the door read Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. “He found out from Mrs. Doyle that her ne'er-do-well husband was livin’ in a flat above a public house what's called the Frog and Squirrel. He went there disguised as a street waif an’ sure enough found the man himself proppin’ up the bar. Drunk as a skunk, he was. Doyle has some sort of appointment later on, and Master Swinburne has tagged along with him as far as this here pub. I saw ’em headin’ down to the Embankment, to give the Strand a wide berth, so I followed and managed to exchange a few words with the lad on the sly. Incidentally, the Strand is where the wraiths are thickest—an’ there are crowds of Rakes wanderin’ about in it, too, but the thing is—” He stopped and shuddered.
“What is it, Herbert?”
“Them Rakes what I glimpsed—”
“Yes?”
“I think they was dead.”
Burton frowned. “How can they be wandering about if they're dead?”
“I know. It ain't possible, but that's what I saw. They're dead, but they ain't realised it yet!”
“Walking dead? By God! And what's this about huge monsters? Constable Bhatti said something of the sort had been seen.”
“Yus, but it's just one and it's the Tichborne Claimant, Boss, grown fatter than a whale! I tells you, if'n you go into the Strand, the wraiths will confuse your mind, the dead Rakes will beat you senseless, an’ the Claimant will bloomin’ well eat you!”
“Eat you?”
“Yus. He's got a taste for human flesh—an’ those what are riotin’ are followin’ his lead!”
“I saw as much. What the hell is happening, Herbert?”
“Dunno, Boss, but it ain't nuthin’ good. An’ to think back in March we thought it were just a simple diamond robbery!”
“I wonder if Algy has discovered anything useful from that Doyle fellow. Do you think I can get into the tavern without having the living daylights kicked out of me?”
“If you muss yourself up a bit more and go in your shirtsleeves, you'll pass muster, what with your face all sooty, as it is.”
Burton slipped out of his jacket and waistcoat, handed them to the vagrant, and looked ruefully at his one-armed shirt.
“I suppose this will be regarded as a qualification,” he muttered. “At least I look like I've been in a scrap!”
“Yus. An’ if you don't mind me a-sayin’ so, you have the face of a pugilist, too.”
“Forgive me if I don't thank you for that comment. So, do I look the part?”
“Muss up your hair a little bit more, Boss.”
Burton did so.
“Perfect.”
“Wait here, Herbert. I hope this won't take too long. It depends how drunk my wayward assistant is.”
He crossed the street, paused outside the tavern, pushed the door open, and entered.
The low-ceilinged interior was quite literally packed to the rafters with working men and women of the very lowest order, with, no doubt, thieves, murderers, and whores mixed liberally among them. They were drunk and boisterous, and many appeared glassy-eyed with something beyond alcoholic intoxication. A few were so far gone they were practically catatonic, standing motionless amid the cacophony with slack faces and eyes rolled up into their sockets.
He pushed his way through the laughing, shouting, singing, squabbling mob, feeling that, at any moment, a knife might be thrust between his ribs or a broken bottle mashed into his face.
“To hell with soddin’ aristocrats!” someone bellowed.
A roar of approval went up and Burton joined in, so as not to stand out.
“Ari-sto-craaats—” rasped a man beside him.
“Three cheers for Sir Roger!”
Burton cheered with them.
“Up with the working man!”
“Aye!” they yelled.
“Aye!” Burton shouted.
As he shoved through what looked to be a group of poorhouse workers, they broke out in song:
“When the Jury said I was not Roger,
Oh! How they made me stagger,
The pretty girls they'll always think
Of poor Roger's wagga wagga!”
A wave of maniacal laughter greeted the verse. One man's guffawing turned into a loud, incoherent wail then cut off abruptly. He stood grinning stupidly, with spittle oozing down his chin.
“Pour more booze down the silly bugger's neck,” someone called. “That'll get ’is engine runnin’ again!”
“Aye!” shouted another. “Them what's not quaffin’ will end up in a coffin!”
This was greeted with more mirth and raised glasses.
Burton registered the paradox that those who were most inebriated were apparently also the ones who retained most of their wits. It confirmed that alcohol did, indeed, go some way to counter the effect of the Tichborne emanations.
He saw Swinburne, looking every inch the guttersnipe, squashed into a corner with a hollow-eyed, bespectacled, long-bearded individual.
“Oy! Nipper!” he roared. “Get yer arse over ’ere, yer little brat!”
“You tell ’im, mister!” A dirty-faced strumpet giggled, nudging him in the side. “Put the scamp over yer knee and give ’im a bloody good spankin’—an’ after that, you can do the same to me!”
Raucous laughter erupted around him. He joined in, and bawled, “Aye! An’ the flat of me hand ain't all you'll be a-hankerin’ after, is it? I has it in mind that you'll be a-wantin’ a bloody good roger, too—an’ I don't mean his nibs Tichborne!”
A deafening cheer greeted his gibe and, under cover of the clamour, raised tankards, and gleeful scoffing, he signalled Swinburne to join him.
The poet said something to his companion, stood, and pushed his way through to Burton's side. The king's agent thumbed toward the door, mouthing, “Let's get out of here!” then grabbed his assistant by the ear and dragged him through the pub and out onto the street.
“My ear!” the poet squeaked.
“Dramatic necessity,” Burton grunted.
They crossed the road and joined Spencer.
“How are you holding up, Algy?” the explorer asked.
Swinburne rubbed his ear and said, “Fine. Fine. What about that spanking?”
“You got quite enough of that outside Verbena Lodge. What's Doyle up to?”
“Drinking, drinking, and more drinking. He can really knock it back. I'm astonished he's still standing, and, as you know, I'm a past master in such endeavours. I really am very impressed. If it came down to a challenge, I'd—”
“Stop babbling, please.”
Burton wondered whether mesmerising the poet had been such a good idea. As he'd suspected, the consequential behaviour was proving unpredictable, Swinburne's verbosity being the most obvious symptom.
“He's on his way to a séance, Richard. It's at ten o'clock at 5 Gallows Tree Lane, on the outskirts of Clerkenwell, very close to the Literary Gentlemen's Unpublishables Club. You know the place—I believe you once went there with old Monckton Milnes. If I remember rightly, you wanted to consult their copy of The Seven Perilous Postures of Love by one of your obscure—or do I mean ‘obscene’?—Arabian poets. It's the club with the supposedly secret scroll of—”
“I know! I know!” Burton interrupted.
“My hat! Do you think they chose Gallows Tree Lane because of its name? Nice and morbid for summoning spirits!”
“Be quiet a moment, Algy. I need to think.”
“Very well. I shan't say another word. My lips are—”
Burton grabbed his assistant, whirled him around, pulled him close, clapped a hand over his mouth, and held him tightly.
“Herbert, would you say Doyle is my height?”
“Yus, more or less, but thinner.”
“Reach into the left pocket of my jacket, would you?”
Spencer, who had Burton's jacket draped over his arm, did as directed and pulled out the brown wig and false beard the king's agent had worn to Bedlam.
“A decent match, do you think?”
“I'd say so, Boss. P'raps his is a touch lighter in colour, but not by much.”
“Mmmph!” Swinburne added.
“Good. When Doyle comes out of that tavern, we're going to jump on him and exchange his jacket and hat for mine. Then I want you and Algy to drag him back to Montagu Place. Keep him there and under no circumstances let him go. Is that understood?”
“To the hilt.”
“Question him. He's intoxicated, so maybe he'll blab something of interest. Ask him about fairies.”
Swinburne squirmed wildly and managed to wriggle out of his grasp. The poet hopped up and down excitedly.
“Fairies? Fairies?” he squealed. “Fairies? What's his pet obsession got to do with anything?”
“Just ask him, Algy. See what he says.”
Spencer eyed Swinburne. “If he can get a word in edgeways.”
“Richard! Surely you don't intend to—”
“Yes, Algy. I'm going to that séance in the guise of Charles Altamont Doyle.”
Sir Richard Francis Burton was a master of disguise, but even he couldn't masquerade as another man so convincingly that his subject's friends and acquaintances would be fooled.
He stood on the doorstep of 5 Gallows Tree Lane, an approximation of Charles Doyle. The foppish jacket he wore was too tight, and while makeup from his pocket kit had hidden his scars and given his eyes and cheeks the appropriately gaunt cast of an addict, his pupils were almost black, whereas Doyle's were a pale and watery blue.
He was, therefore, feeling rather nervous when he knocked on the door.
It was dark now and the streets were quiet. The throbbing of a police rotorship pulsed through the air from afar.
The door opened and a man stood silhouetted by gaslight.
“Yes?”
“Am I late?”
“Yes. We've been waiting.”
“The riot—”
“I know. Come in. Leave your hat and cane on the stand.”
Burton stepped inside.
“Put this on. No names. You know the rules.”
Burton was handed a black crepe mask. He placed it over his eyes, knotting the ribbons behind his head. Inwardly, he sighed with relief. Now his disguise was more secure.
The man closed the door and turned, revealing that he, too, was masked.
“Follow me.”
The king's agent was led through a reception room and into a large parlour. A dense stratum of blue tobacco smoke floated just above eye level. There was a big round table in the middle of the room with seven chairs arranged around it. Two men stood by a bureau, three by a fireplace. All were dressed in the Rakish manner. All wore masks. They turned as he entered.
“Gentlemen, we can start,” the man who'd answered the door announced. “Please lay your drinks aside, extinguish your cigars, and take your places at the table.”
Each man did as directed, while the host turned down the gas lamps until the room was in near darkness. His guests moved to the chairs, seeming to sit in preselected positions. Burton hung back until it became clear where he should place himself. He sat.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the ticking of a grandfather clock.
“I shall begin this meeting as I have begun every meeting,” the host intoned, adopting a low and rhythmic manner of speech, as if beginning a ritual, “with a statement of purpose, for we are undertaking a great work. Those who would flinch from it must remind themselves that what we do, in the fullness of time, shall be for the greater good of mankind.”
“The greater good of mankind,” the gathering echoed.
Burton's jaw muscle flexed. He was going to have to anticipate these repetitions and join in.
Don't get it wrong!
“Our watchword is freedom.”
“Freedom!”
“Our object is liberation.”
“Liberation!”
“Our future is anarchy.”
“Anarchy!”
“Join hands, please.”
Burton reached out and felt his hands gripped by his neighbours.
“True freedom comes not from rights granted in the courts of law but from the complete absence of law. True freedom cannot be imposed from without but must flower from within. True freedom is not the prerogative to do something but the right to do anything. True freedom knows no bounds, no reason, no moral centre, no belief, no time, no place, no status, no god.”
“No god,” they chorused.
“Gentlemen, rules must be broken.”
“Rules must be broken.”
“Propriety must be challenged.”
“Propriety must be challenged.”
“The status quo must be unbalanced.”
“The status quo must be unbalanced.”
“Though each of us here occupies a privileged position, we must each be willing to sacrifice it that the human species may progress, for the cycle of ages turns and a time of transition is upon us.”
Burton stifled an exclamation. Again, those words!
“Each has a part to play in the great upheaval that is to come. Each part is essential to the whole. Do not waver. Do not doubt. Do not question.”
The room was suddenly heavy with a presence, sensed but not seen.
The clock stopped.
A strange tone entered the host's voice; it was as if another person—female—was beginning to force her own words through his vocal cords.
“We shall go forth this night, as we have done before. We shall carry the vibrations of change to the people. We shall guide them to true liberty.”
“True liberty!” the group chanted.
“Urk!” the host said.
Burton stared at him. The man had suddenly thrown his head back and opened his mouth. A bubbling, shifting, globular substance was rising into the air from deep within his throat—the king's agent could see the sides of the man's esophagus undulating as the matter rose up through it.
Ectoplasm!
Possessing the qualities of both a liquid and a gas, the strange material rolled and twisted upward into the cloud of tobacco smoke. Burton squinted, unsure how to interpret the scene that unfolded before him. It appeared that the layer of smoke was glowing slightly and bulging downward over the centre of the table.
The female voice now filled the room. It wasn't coming from the man any longer, but reverberated, it seemed, in the very atmosphere itself.
“Send forth your astral bodies, my sons. Undertake our great work. Walk abroad and touch the souls of the unenlightened.”
The bulge in the smoke rapidly congealed into the shape of a woman's head and shoulders, hanging upside down from the cloud. A swirling, wispy arm reached out and a vague finger touched one of the Rakes on the forehead. Burton watched in amazement as a ghostly form detached itself from the man's seated figure. It hovered behind him for a moment before blowing away on an unfelt breeze, dissolving into the gloom of the chamber.
“Go forth, apostles, and liberate the downtrodden and the oppressed.”
She had a Russian accent.
The woman's finger touched a second man and a wraith emerged from him and vanished.