The curious case of the Clockwork Man

I.”

The woman's weakness was obvious: she possessed overweening vanity. She was supremely confident in her abilities and, having no knowledge of his Sufi training, vastly underestimated him. However, in order to inveigle information from her, he had to keep her occupied, and the only way to do that was to sacrifice the deeper reaches of his own mind-to give her access to his insecurities, sorrows, and regrets.

It was agony.

Burton felt his heart tighten as she infiltrated the grief he associated with the Berbera expedition-but he pushed through the pain and surprised her with a question: Who is Arthur Orton?

His unexpected probe was so forceful that the answer flared in her mind before she could stop it. Burton saw confirmation that the Tichborne creature and Orton the butcher were one and the same. The man had been chosen for her scheme because he possessed a peculiarly well-developed ability to project coercive mental energy, though he was oblivious to this talent. He'd been using it unknowingly in Wagga Wagga to attract customers to his shop, and they had come, despite fearing and loathing him due to his disgusting appetite for raw meat. Implanting the Choir Stones beneath his scalp had greatly enhanced the ability.

The woman's invasive presence assaulted Burton with greater intensity.

“Very clever, Gaspadin Burton! But I shall get far more from you than you can get from me! Already I am deep inside your memories. I see poor Lieutenant Stroyan there. You killed him. How careless of you!”

Still she misjudged him, and while she dug her claws into his painful memories, she also exposed much more of herself than she realised. He felt a sense of triumph blazing through the woman. She gloried in the fact that Britain's labourers were falling under the spell of her great deception, eagerly swallowing the story of a lost aristocrat who'd returned home to find himself snubbed by the society that produced him simply because he'd worked as a commoner. It was the perfect means to rouse their sleeping passions.

How valuable the Tichbornes had been! Her faux prodigal not only gave her the means to disseminate her evil influence among the working classes, but had also secured for her the South American diamond.

Burton, gathering information, struggled to resist her taunts. He remembered his friend's courage, and told her: Stroyan died as he would have wished-a brave man performing his duty.

“Nonsense! You killed him! The guilt eats away at you!”

Again, he tried to surprise her into revealing more: Tell me, madam, where did you find out about the Eyes of Naga?

He felt her reel at the question.

“Dorogoi!” she exclaimed. “You know too much!”

This time, however, an answer did not inadvertently enter her thoughts. Instead, Burton detected the presence of an impassable barrier, as if part of the woman was-was-

He couldn't define what he sensed.

“How I learned of the Eyes is of no consequence. All that matters is that I employ them to open the minds of the poor and the downtrodden. You see how I clear the blinkers from their eyes? ”

You speak as if you are performing some manner of social service, but that is not your intention, is it? Tell me the truth. What do you hope to achieve?

“Revolution.”

You want to overthrow the British Empire?

“I want to demolish it.”

Why?

“Because I am a seer, malchik moi. I have cast my mind into the future and I know the destiny of my beloved country. I have watched Mother Russia brought to her knees. I have watched her wither and die! ”

What the hell has this to do with Britain?

“Everything! See what I have seen!”

White-hot pain seared into Burton's head. He screamed his anguish as the woman's clairvoyant vision flooded into his brain-too much information, too fast, blasting down the channel that joined their minds, overwhelming his senses, telling him far more even than she'd intended, and driving him into a near stupor.

Paralysed in thought as well as body, he watched helplessly as her prophecy slowly unfolded in his mind's eye.

Blood.

Light.

A first taste of air.

A child is born in Russia, the son of peasants.

Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin.

He is blessed-or perhaps cursed-with clairvoyant powers.

His childhood is unhappy. Everyone knows there is something different-strange-about him. He is shunned. Only his siblings give him the attention he craves. He adores them. Then his sister drowns in a river, and his brother, saved from the same fate, is taken by pneumonia.

Rasputin knows that one day he will also die in water. The knowledge terrifies him-unhinges him. He becomes erratic and violent. His parents banish him to a monastery deep in the Ural Mountains, unaware that the establishment has been overrun by the banned Khlysty sect; flagellants, whose orgiastic rituals end in physical exhaustion, and, for Rasputin, in ecstatic mediumistic hallucinations.

Two years later, now a lanky, straggle-haired youth, he emerges from the mountains, intoxicated with a sense of his own importance and in no doubt that he will gain control of his country and make of it a great power. He has seen it. It has been prophesied. It is the future.

Before his twentieth birthday, he marries and comes to hate his wife, has children and is repelled by them, and indulges in affairs-many affairs-before walking out of his home, never to return. He travels back and forth across Russia, and, after three years, makes his way to Saint Petersburg.

Soon the whole city knows him. They call him the “Mad Monk.” He is the holy man who heals the sick, who sees the future, and who gets drunk and seduces married women and their daughters.

The tsaritsa comes to him, drawn by his reputation as a miracle worker. Her son is dying. Rasputin eases the boy's suffering. He gains the royal family's trust. By now he is an alcoholic and a sexual deviant, but he has the tsar's ear.

A new century dawns.

For years, Britain and Prussia-now United Germany-have been engaging in skirmishes in Central Africa. The tensions deepen, and Britain's Technologists begin an arms race with Germany's Eugenicists. The British government is nervous. It has come to regard eugenics as an insidious evil, a menace to civilisation, an antithesis to freedom and the rights of man.

The prime minister seeks to publicly downplay the growing threat from the foreign power. After all, the British Empire is massive. It counts North America, India, the Caribbean, Australia, and huge chunks of Africa among its many territories. What can a comparatively small nation like Germany do against such a global power?

Then Britain's reclusive monarch, King Albert, dies, aged ninety. Lord Palmerston's masterful manipulation of the constitution had given Albert the throne after the assassination of Queen Victoria, but has now left it with no obvious successor.

The republican movement gains popular support. The country is thrown into crisis. The government is distracted.

Germany invades France.

Germany invades Belgium.

Germany invades Denmark.

Germany invades Austria-Hungary.

Germany invades Serbia.

They all fall.

The Greater German Empire is born.

Britain declares war.

Emperor Herbert von Bismarck sends his chancellor, Friedrich Nietzsche, to Russia to win the backing of the tsar.

Secretly, Nietzsche also meets with Grigori Rasputin. It's the first time they've encountered each other in the flesh, but for many months they've been in mediumistic contact, for Nietzsche, like Rasputin, is profoundly clairvoyant. He is also a profligate, drug-addict, and sadomasochist.

They have a plan.

Rasputin will manipulate the tsar into allying Russia with Germany. When the British are defeated and their Empire is carved up, assassinations will be arranged. The Bismarck and Romanov dynasties will be destroyed. Together, Nietzsche and Rasputin will become the supreme rulers of the entire Western world. They convince themselves that they will be strict but benign.

It begins.

Tsar Nicholas has no resistance to Rasputin's mesmeric influence. Russia declares war against Britain.

For three appalling years, the conflict rages, spreading across the whole world, with the British Technologists’ steam machines on one side and the German Eugenicists’ adapted flora and fauna on the other.

An entire generation of men is slaughtered.

Europe is battered until it is little more than one gigantic, muddy, blood-soaked field.

Britain falters, but fights on, and when the British American States join the conflict, Germany is bruised and, for the first time, retreats.

Russian troops arrive in the nick of time. There is another great push forward. For two more years, the battles seethe back and forth over Europe's devastated territories, until finally, the biggest empire the world has ever seen topples and falls.

The war ends. The spoils are divided. The treachery follows.

Tsar Nicholas and his entire family are rounded up and shot in the head. Bismarck is garrotted. His family and supporters are executed.

Friedrich Nietzsche rises to power, receives life-prolongation treatments, and begins a near-century-long reign of terror that will earn him the sobriquet The Devil's Dictator.

Britain, from its deathbed, makes one final gesture of defiance. Two days before Rasputin is to be named president of Russia, three members of the palace staff surround him. They are British spies. They produce pistols and, at point-blank range, pull the triggers. All three guns jam. Rasputin has long feared assassination, and projects around himself a permanent mediumistic energy field that alters the structure of springs, robbing them of their power. No trigger mechanism will function anywhere near him.

He laughs in the faces of the would-be killers, and, with a careless gesture, causes their brains to boil in their skulls.

The following day, he is poisoned with cyanide. Realising that he's the subject of a second assassination attempt, he slows down his metabolism and begins to consciously secrete the poison out through his pores. Four men corner him and hack at him with an axe. They bludgeon him into submission, bind him hand and foot, and wrap him in a carpet. Rasputin is carried to the ice-bound Neva River and thrown in.

Despite his terrible wounds, it is-as he's known it would be all his life-the water that kills him.

He dies believing the British have had their revenge.

He is wrong.

The assassins are German.

The year is 1916, and Nietzsche, now the most powerful man in the world, considers himself well rid of the Mad Monk. Russia, without a visionary in control, will never pose a threat. It is left isolated, friendless, ungoverned, and poverty-stricken.

With millions of its sons killed in the war, the sprawling country's agricultural infrastructure collapses. Famine decimates the population. A harsh winter does the rest.

Russia's death is lonely, lingering, and catastrophic.

“There!”

The woman's voice hissed through Burton's skull.

He gulped in air and a tremor shook his body as consciousness returned.

“There!” she repeated. “That is why I do what I do! I have seen Mother Russia die, and I will not allow it! No! I shall change history! I shall ensure that Britain is in no condition to oppose Germany! I shall see to it that the World War is over in months rather than years! I shall cause your workers to bring this country to its knees! And when the terrible war comes-for there is no stopping it-Germany will wipe your weakened, filthy Empire from the Earth without need of Russia's aid. And while it is doing so, Rasputin will be making the homeland strong, and when the war is done and Germany is weakened, he will strike! There will be a new Empire-not Britain's, not Germany's, but Russia's! ”

You're insane.

“No. I am a prophet. I am the saviour of my country. I am the protector of Rasputin, the death of Britain, and the destroyer of Germany. I am Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, and Destiny is mine to manipulate!”

She pushed deeper into his mind. Burton opened his mouth to scream but could make no sound. It felt as if his cranium was filling with maggots.

“Dorogoi!” she exclaimed. “You killed Babbage! How gratifying! But what is this? Even more guilt? My, my, Gaspadin Burton, what a brilliant mind you have, but so filled with fears and insecurities-and so many regrets! I see now that killing you is not enough, for there is something you fear more, and that shall be your punishment: I will cause your own weaknesses to deprive you of your reason!”

Her mesmeric power intensified. It overwhelmed his crumbling resistance. His capacity for independent thought was summarily crushed and immobilised.

A fracture opened. Burton's subtle and corporeal bodies lost cohesion. His mind began to splinter. His viewpoint suddenly changed and he found himself hovering outside his own body. He watched the intelligence fade from his own eyes.

The odd disassociation gave him his one slender chance.

A lgernon Swinburne was in no fit state to conduct an interrogation. He'd been drinking with Charles Doyle, first in the Frog and Squirrel, then in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, and, in Herbert Spencer's opinion, he'd taken another step closer to becoming a chronic alcoholic. The philosopher hoped the pitiful state of Doyle would teach the young poet a lesson.

The Rake had not put up much resistance when they and Burton had shanghaied him. As a matter of fact, when informed that the seance had been postponed-which was a lie, of course-and invited for drinks at Montagu Place, he'd expressed relief, hooked his arms in theirs, and cried: “Lead on, Macduff!”

They had led on, after first indulging in a comedic charade of jacket and hat swapping which baffled the already befuddled Doyle and had Swinburne in fits of giggles.

Burton headed off toward Gallows Tree Lane, while Swinburne and Spencer ushered Doyle north along Gray's Inn Road, then west along the Euston and Marylebone Roads. Rioters were still on the rampage but they paid scant attention to the trio, who weaved through and around the wreckage and fights and fires, appearing to be nothing but an urchin, a vagabond, and a hopeless drunk.

They were twice stopped and questioned by the police. Fortunately, Swinburne was familiar with both the constables and, after he surreptitiously lifted his wig to reveal the carroty red hair beneath and whispered words of explanation, they allowed him and his companions to pass.

The next hurdle was rather more intimidating. Mrs. Iris Angell responded to their hammering on the front door by opening it and placing herself on the threshold, with hands on hips and a scowl on her face.

“If you think you're setting foot in this house while three sheets to the wind you must be even more intoxicated than you smell. How many times must I put up with it, Master Swinburne?”

Unable to reveal his mission while Doyle was beside him, Swinburne charmed, flattered, wheedled, demanded, apologised, and almost begged, all to no avail.

In the distance, Big Ben chimed ten. In his mind's eye, the poet pictured Richard Burton joining the seance, and he jumped up and down in frustration.

Then he remembered that the agent and his housekeeper had shared with him a password to use when on king's business.

“My hat, Mother Angell, it completely slipped my mind! Abdullah.”

“Now then, you'll not be using that word carelessly, I hope. Sir Richard will not stand for that, you know!”

“I promise you, dear lady, that I employ it fully cognisant of the consequences should your suspicions, which I insist are entirely unfounded, prove to be true. Abdullah, Mrs. A. Abdullah, Abdullah, and, once more, Abdullah! By George, I'll even throw in an extra one for a spot of blessed luck! Abdull-”

“Oh, stop your yammering and come in. But I'm warning you, gentlemen: any monkey business and I'll have Admiral Lord Nelson ejecting you from the premises with a metal boot to your posteriors!”

She allowed them to pass through.

“Master Swinburne, a message arrived by runner for Sir Richard. I left it on his mantelpiece.”

They climbed the stairs and entered the study.

“Buttock face! Strumpet breeders!”

POX JR5 fluttered across the room and landed on Herbert Spencer's shoulder.

“Gorgeous lover boy!” the parakeet cackled.

Doyle collapsed into an armchair.

Swinburne read the message mentioned by the housekeeper: Miss Nightingale communicated with me the moment you left Bedlam. Situation understood. Thank you, Sir Richard. I am in your debt. If you require assistance, my not inconsiderable resources are at your disposal. I can be contacted at Battersea Power Station.

Isambard Kingdom Brunel

The poet raised his brows and muttered: “An old enemy may have just become a new friend.”

He took a decanter of brandy from Burton's bureau and joined Doyle. They set about emptying it.

Spencer abstained from drinking. He felt obliged to remain sober enough to record any useful information Swinburne might extract from Doyle. By contrast, Burton's assistant felt it incumbent upon himself to make their guest-who was too far gone to realise that he was actually their prisoner-feel that he was among friends; that he could talk freely. He therefore matched the Rake drink for drink.

The subsequent conversation, if it could qualify as such, was, to Spencer's ears, verging on gibberish.

Doyle, who didn't seem to care that he was drinking with a child-for that's what Swinburne, in his disguise, appeared to be-was regaling the “boy” with “facts” about fairies. His voice was thick and slurred and his eyes rolled around in a disconcerting manner.

“Sh-see, they-they fiss-fick-fixate on a person, like they've fig-fixated on me, then they play merry miz-mischief. It's peek-a-boo when ye least essexpect it; diz-distraction when ye least- urp! -need it; wizz-whisperings when ye least want ’em. Aye, aye, aye, they're not the joyful little sprites I dep-depict for the pish-picture books, ye know. Och no. I have to paint ’em that w-w-way, y'zee-shee-see, just so I can sell ma work.” He groaned, swigged from his glass, and muttered: “Damn and- urp! -blast ’em!”

“But where do they come from, Mr. Doyle? What do they want? Why are they tormenting you? What do they look like? Do they speak? Have they intelligence?”

“Och! One q-question at a time, laddie! They are eff-etheric beings, and they latched onto ma ash-ash-ass-astral body while I was shhh-sharing the eman-eman-emanations.”

Swinburne started to say something but Spencer jumped in with: “Sharin’ the emanations? What's that mean?”

Doyle belched, drained his glass, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and held the tumbler out for a refill. His hand trembled.

Swinburne took aim and poured the brandy. Half of it hit the tabletop.

“The Ray-Rakes want a better sh-sss-society but no one listens to us, do they? They do-don't take us sh-say-seriously. Ye've sheen our dec-declarations?”

“Posted on walls and lampposts.” Swinburne nodded, and quoted: “’We will not define ourselves by the ideals you enforce. We scorn the social attitudes that you perpetuate. We neither respect nor- hic! -conform with the views of our elders. We think and act against the tides of popular opinion. We sneer at your dogma. We laugh at your rules. We are anarchy. We are chaos. We are individuals. We are the Rakes.’”

“Codswallop!” Pox squawked from Spencer's shoulder.

“Aye, w-well, it was a waysh-waste of good ink and paper. Sh-so our new leader-”

His voice trailed off and his eyes lost focus. The glass slipped from his hand, spilling brandy into his lap. He slumped forward.

“Damn, blast, and botheration!” Swinburne shrilled. “The bally fool has passed out on us just as he was getting to the good bit!”

“Yus, and he's out for the count by the look of it, lad,” Spencer observed. “He won't be openin’ his eyes again until tomorrow, mark my words. What shall we do with him?”

“We'll carry the bounder upstairs and lay him out on the sofa in the spare bedroom. I'll sleep on the bed in there. You can kip here, if an armchair's not too uncomfortable for you.”

“I've slept in so many blinkin’ doorways that an armchair is the lap o’ bloomin’ luxury!”

“My sweetie pie,” Pox whispered.

Swinburne stood and swayed unsteadily. He stamped his foot.

“What the dickens is all this fairy nonsense about, Herbert?”

“It beats me.”

By midnight, Algernon Swinburne was staring at the spare bedroom's ceiling, wishing he could be rid of the sharp tang of brandy that burned at the back of his throat.

He couldn't sleep and the room seemed to be slowly revolving.

He felt strange-and it was something more than mere drunkenness.

He'd been feeling strange ever since Burton had mesmerised him.

Tonight, though, the strangeness felt… stranger.

He shifted restlessly.

Doyle, draped over the sofa, was breathing deeply and rhythmically, a sound not too far removed from that made by waves lapping at a pebble beach.

The house whispered as the day's heat dissipated, emitting soft creaks and knocks from the floorboards, a gentle tap at the window as its frame contracted, a low groan from the ceiling rafters.

“Bloody racket,” Swinburne murmured.

From afar came the paradiddle of rotors and the muffled blare of the police warning.

“And you can shut up, too!”

He wondered how much damage the riot had caused. There had been a great many acts of arson and vandalism, and beatings and murders, too.

“London,” he hissed. “The bastion of civilisation!”

He could hardly believe that the supposed return of a lost heir had developed into such mayhem.

He looked at the curtained window.

“What was that?”

Had he heard something?

It came again, a barely audible tap.

“Not a parakeet, surely! Not unless its beak is swathed in cotton wool! Good lord, what's the matter with me? I feel positively spooked!”

Tap tap tap.

“Go away!”

He experienced the horrible sensation that someone other than Doyle and himself was present in the room. It didn't frighten him-Swinburne was entirely unfamiliar with that emotion-but it certainly made him uneasy, and he knew he'd never sleep until he confronted it head-on.

“Who's there?” he called. “Are you standing behind the curtains? If so, I should warn you that I'm none too keen on cheap melodrama!”

Tap tap.

He sighed and threw the bed sheets back, sat up, and pushed his feet into the too-big Arabian slippers that he'd borrowed from Burton's room. He stood and lifted a dressing gown from the bedside chair, wrapped it around himself, and shuffled to the window. He yanked open the curtains.

Smoke and steam, illuminated by a streetlamp, were seething against the glass.

“Hasn't it cleared up yet?” the poet muttered. “What this city needs is a good blast of wind. I say! What's that?”

The fumes were thickening, forming a shape.

“A wraith? Here? What on earth is it up to?”

He pulled up the sash and leaned out of the window.

“What's the meaning of this? Bugger off, will you! I'm thoroughly fed up with phantoms! Go and haunt somebody else! I'm trying to sleep! Wait! Wait! What? My hat! Is that-is that you, Richard?”

The ghostly features forming just inches from his own were, undoubtedly, those of Sir Richard Francis Burton.

“No!” the poet cried. “You can't be dead, surely!”

His friend's faintly visible lips moved. There was no sound, but it seemed to Swinburne that the defensive walls Burton had implanted in his mind suddenly crumbled, and the noise of their destruction was like a whispered voice: Help me, Algy!

“Help you? Help you? What? I- My God!”

He stumbled backward away from the window and fell onto the bed.

The ghostly form of Burton had melted away.

He sat for a moment with his mouth hanging open, then sprang up, grabbed his clothes, and raced from the room. He thundered down the stairs and into the study.

“Herbert! Herbert! Wake up, man!”

“Eh?”

“Richard's in trouble! We have to find him!”

“Trouble? What trouble? How do you know?”

“I had a vision!”

The vagrant philosopher eyed the younger man. “Now then, lad, that brandy-”

“No, I'm suddenly sober as a judge, I swear! Get dressed! Move, man! We have to get going! I'll meet you in the backyard!

Spencer threw up his hands. “All right, all right!”

Swinburne somehow combined putting on his clothes with descending the stairs. In the main hallway, he snatched a leash from the hatstand, and continued on to the basement and out of the back door.

The poet crossed the yard and squatted down in front of Fidget's kennel.

“Wake up, old thing,” he urged, in a low voice. “I know you and I have our differences but there's work to be done. Your master needs us!”

There came the sound of a wheezy yawn followed by a rustling movement. The basset hound's head emerged. The dog stared mournfully at the poet.

“Your nose is required, Fidget. Here, let me get the lead onto you, there's a good dog.”

Swinburne clipped the leather strap onto the hound's collar then stood and said, “Come on, exercise time!”

Fidget dived at his ankle and nipped it.

“Ow! You rotter! Stop it! We don't have time for games!”

Spencer stepped out of the house, wearing his baggy coat and cap.

“Take this little monster!” Swinburne screeched.

“So where are we off to, lad?” the philosopher asked, grabbing Fidget's lead.

“Gallows Tree Lane.”

“It's past midnight the night of a riot! How do you expect us to get to bloomin’ Clerkenwell? Weren't it difficult enough gettin’ here from Fleet Street?”

“Follow me-and keep that mongrel away from my ankles!”

Swinburne walked to the back of the yard, opened the door to the garage, and passed through. “We'll take these,” he said, as Herbert stepped in behind him.

“Rotorchairs? I can't drive a blinkin’ rotorchair!”

“Yes you can. It's easy! Don't worry, I'll show you how. It's just a matter of coordination, which means if I can do it, anyone can.”

“An’ what about the dog?”

“Fidget will sit on your lap.”

“Oh, heck!”

Swinburne opened the main doors and they dragged the machines out into the mews. Despite his protestations, Spencer absorbed the poet's instructions without difficulty and was soon familiar with the principles of flying. It was only experience he lacked.

“Swans I'm happy with,” he grumbled. “They was born to it. But takin’ to the air in a lump o’ metal and wood? That's plain preposterous. How the blazes do these things fly?”

Swinburne nodded and grinned. “I felt the same the first time. It's the Formby coal, you see. It produces so much energy that even these ungainly contraptions can take to the air. I should warn you, though, Herbert, that there's a chance our enemy will cause them to cease working. We could plummet from the sky. All set, then?”

Spencer stared at his companion. “Was that a joke?”

“There's no time for larking about, man! Richard may be in dire peril!”

“Um. Yus, well, er-the basset hound won't jump off, will he?”

“No. Fidget has flown with Richard before. He positively delights in the experience.”

Swinburne went to the back of Spencer's machine and started the engine, then crossed to his own and did the same. He clambered into the leather armchair and buckled himself in. After fitting a pair of goggles over his eyes, he gripped the steering rods and pushed forward on the footplate.

Above his head, six wings unfolded as the flight shaft began to revolve. They snapped out horizontally, turned slowly, picked up speed, and vanished into a blurry circle. The engine coughed and roared and steam surged out from the exhaust funnel, flattening against the ground as the rotors blew it down and away.

The machine's runners scraped forward a couple of feet then lifted. Swinburne yanked back the middle lever and shot vertically into the air.

He rose until he was high above the smoke-swathed city. Above him, the stars twinkled. Below him, fires flickered.

The riot seemed to have confined itself to the centre of London, and had been concentrated, in particular, around Soho and the West End.

Far off to the east, the Cauldron-the terrible East End-showed no signs of disturbances.

“But, then, why should it?” Swinburne said to himself. “You'll not find a single representative of High Society for them to rail against in that part of town. By crikey, though, imagine if that sleeping dragon awoke!”

Spencer shot up past him, slowed his vehicle, and sank back down until he was hovering level with the poet.

Swinburne gave him a thumbs-up, and guided his craft toward the Clerkenwell district.

Their flight was short and uneventful, though they saw many police fliers skimming low over the rooftops.

When they reached Coram's Fields, they reduced altitude and steered their machines through the drifting tatters of smoke from street to street until, below, they spotted a constable on his beat.

Swinburne landed near the policeman and stopped his rotorchair's engine.

“I say! Constable!”

“I shouldn't park here, sir, if I-Hallo! Here comes another one!”

Spencer's vehicle angled down onto the road, hit it with a thump, and skidded to a halt with sparks showering from its runners.

Fidget barked.

“Gents,” the policeman said as the engine noise died down, “this is no time and no night to be out and about in expensive vehicles!”

“We're on the king's business!” Swinburne proclaimed. “I'd like you to guard these chairs and have them returned to 14 Montagu Place at the first opportunity.”

The constable removed his helmet and scratched his head. “Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I don't know that you're in any position to give me orders, ‘specially ones that'll take me from my duties.”

“My good man, I am Sir Richard Francis Burton's personal assistant,” Swinburne countered haughtily. He pulled a card from his pocket and waved it in the man's face. “And Sir Richard Francis Burton is the king's agent. And the king, God bless him, is the ruler of the land. It also happens that I claim Detective Inspector Trounce and Detective Inspector Honesty of Scotland Yard as close personal friends. Then there's Commander Krishnamurthy, Constable Bhatti-”

“Stop! I surrender!” the policeman said, taking the card. He read it, handed it back, put on his helmet, saluted, and said: “Right you are, sir. My apologies. I'll see that your machines are returned in good time. How about if I have them shifted to the Yard for the night? For safekeeping?”

“Thank you. That will be most satisfactory, my man. I shall be sure to mention-Ow! Herbert! I told you to keep that little devil away from me! Goodbye, Constable. Thank you for your assistance!”

The policeman nodded, and Swinburne, Spencer, and Fidget crossed the road and approached the corner of Gallows Tree Lane.

Swinburne whispered, “If you see any Rakes, walk straight past them! Act normally.”

“That I can do,” Spencer mumbled inaudibly. “Dunno ‘bout you, though!”

They entered the dimly lit street and stopped outside number 5. The house was in darkness.

Swinburne hissed, “Keep a tight rein on the dog, Herbert. I have to squat down to speak to him and I'd rather not have my nose bitten!”

“Right ho.”

“Now then, you vicious little toerag,” Swinburne said to the basset hound, “where's your master, hey? Seek, Fidget! Seek! Where's your master? I know the air is full of ash, but I'm sure those blessed nostrils of yours can sort the wheat from the chaff. Seek!”

Fidget's deep brown eyes, which had been regarding him with disdain, slowly lost focus.

“Find your master!” Swinburne encouraged.

Fidget blinked, looked to the right, then to the left, then at Swinburne, then at Herbert Spencer.

“Wuff!”

He lowered his nose to the pavement and began to snuffle back and forth.

All of a sudden, he raised his head, bayed wildly, and set off at a terrific pace, almost yanking Spencer off his feet.

“He's got it!” Swinburne enthused, racing after the pair.

They ran out onto Gray's Inn Road, turned left, raced up to King's Cross Railway Station, then swerved left again onto the Euston Road.

“He seems mighty sure of himself!” Spencer puffed as they galloped along.

“That nose never fails!” Swinburne panted. “It saved my life last year. It's just a shame it's attached to the rest of the beast!”

At the junction with Russell Square, they encountered two constables who were grappling with a mad-eyed individual dressed in a bloodstained butcher's apron.

“What the devil do you think you're doing out and about at this time of night?” one of the policemen yelled at them.

“Government business!” Swinburne declared.

“Pull the other one, it's got bells on it!”

“Aargh!” the butcher howled. “Look at the little one! The red-haired git! He's a bloody toff! Kill ‘im! Kill ‘im!”

“Shut up,” the second policeman snapped. He grunted as the man's knee thudded into his stomach, and groaned to his companion: “Bash the blighter on the head, Bill!”

The poet, philosopher, and basset hound ran past the brawling trio and kept going.

Fidget led the two men onward until the bottom end of Regent's Park hove into view. The trail led past it and onto Marylebone Road. They had run about a mile so far.

“I never thought I'd be thankful for a riot!” Swinburne gasped.

“What do you mean, lad?”

“Isn't it obvious? Whoever's got Richard couldn't find transport! They're on foot!”

They hurried on for another mile. The road, one of the city's main highways, was empty of people but filled with rubble and wreckage. Fires still blazed and they found themselves plunging through clouds of black smoke. Many gas lamps had been vandalised, too, and lengths of the thoroughfare were pitch dark.

“Whoops!” Spencer cried as Fidget made an unexpected left turn.

“Bishop's Bridge Road,” Swinburne noted.

Just ahead of them, the lights of Paddington Railway Station flared out from within an enormous cloud of white steam. Fidget plunged straight into it.

The terminal was a scene of out-and-out chaos. A locomotive had derailed while entering the station, ploughing into one of the platforms. It was lying on its side with its boiler split open, vapour shooting out of the ripped metal.

Policemen and station workers milled about, and the moment Swinburne and Spencer stepped into the building, a constable, whose features were dominated by a truly enormous mustache, pounced on them.

“Stop right there! What are you two up to?” He looked at Swinburne curiously. “Hello hello. Haven't I seen you somewhere before? Hey up! I know! It was back when that brass man was left in Trafalgar Square! Constable Hoare is the name, sir. Samuel Hoare.”

“Hello, Hoare. We're on official business! Have a squint at this.”

Burton's assistant presented his credentials to the uniformed man, who examined them and raised his bushy eyebrows.

Fidget whined and tugged desperately at his lead. Hoare shook his head.

“This is too much for me,” he said. “I'll call my supervisor over, if you don't mind.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled into the cloud: “Commander! Commander!”

Swinburne breathed a sigh of relief as the steam parted and Commander Krishnamurthy strode into view. He was wearing the new Flying Squad uniform of a long brown leather coat and a flat peaked officer's hat. A pair of flying goggles dangled around his neck.

“What ho! What ho! What ho!” the poet cried happily. “Krishnamurthy, old horse! Why, I haven't seen you since the Battle of Old Ford! Aren't you sweltering in all that leather?”

“Hallo, Swinburne, old chap!” Krishnamurthy exclaimed, with an unrestrained grin. He grabbed his friend's hand and shook it. “Yes I am! Regulations, a hex on ’em! What on earth are you doing here, and at this time of night? Wait a minute-” he looked at Spencer “-aren't you Herbert Spencer, the philosopher chap? My cousin-Shyamji Bhatti-is always talking about you. Singing your praises, in fact.”

“That's very kind of him; he's a good fellow!” Spencer replied. “You look like him.”

“Dashingly handsome, you mean? Thanks very much. So what's the story, Mr. Swinburne?”

“Fidget's nose has led us here. We're tracking Richard. He's in trouble!”

Krishnamurthy looked down at the basset hound. “Well, this isn't the end of the trail by the looks of it. Let him lead on, we'll see where he takes us. You can tell me all about it on the way. Stay with us, Constable Hoare!”

“Yes, sir,” the mustachioed policeman answered.

In the event, Fidget didn't take them very far at all. The trail ended at the edge of platform three.

“They got on a train,” Krishnamurthy said. “So when do you think, Mr. Swinburne? It's just past half-two now and there've been no locomotives in or out of the station since rioters threw something onto the line and caused that one to derail a little over an hour ago.”

“Richard had an appointment at ten o'clock,” Swinburne answered. “His-um-his-er-his message reached me around midnight. So I guess whatever train left here with him aboard did so during the hour before the crash.”

Krishnamurthy turned to his subordinate. “Hoare, run and get a Bradshaw, would you? We'll look up the train times and destinations.”

The constable hurried away and, while he was gone, Swinburne gave the commander a brief outline of the events leading up to Burton's plea for help.

“So he got a message to you, did he? The resourceful so-and-so! What was it, a parakeet?”

Swinburne cleared his throat. “Um. I heard a tapping at the window, yes.”

“So what's all this seance malarkey about? What are the Rakes up to? I've been receiving preposterous reports from the West End. Some of my colleagues claim that dead Rakes are shuffling about in the Strand!”

“It's true,” Spencer said.

“As to what's going on,” Swinburne added, “hopefully Richard will be able to tell us, if we can snatch him out of their hands!”

Hoare returned with a portly gentleman in tow.

“I went one better than a Bradshaw and brought the stationmaster, sir.”

“Ah, good show. Hello, Mr. Arkwright. I presume you know the station's timetable better than the back of your hand?”

“I certainly do,” confessed the uniformed man. “I could sing it to you in my sleep, if I ever sleep again, which after this disaster I probably won't. Just look at the state of my station!”

“No serenades are required, thank you, but perhaps you could tell us what trains left this platform prior to the crash, after, say, half-twelve?”

“Just the one, sir, on account of it being the night timetable and us having a reduced service due to the public disorder.”

“And that was?”

“An offence against the king, if you ask me, sir.”

“I meant the train, Mr. Arkwright. When did it leave and where was it bound?”

“It was the twelve forty-five atmospheric service, sir, to Weymouth via Reading, stopping at Basingstoke, Winchester, Eastleigh, Southampton, Bournemouth, and Poole. Due in at-”

“Winchester!” Swinburne interrupted. “That's where they've taken him, I'd bet my life on it.”

“Yus,” Spencer agreed. “Then by carriage to Alresford and on to Tichborne House!”

“Bloody hell!” the little poet cursed, flapping his arms wildly. “Our rotorchairs are somewhere between Clerkenwell and Scotland Yard by now! I say! Krishnamurthy, old bean, I don't suppose we could commandeer a couple of your police fliers?”

The commander shook his head regretfully. “I'd say yes, of course, but they're all in the air, what with tonight's disturbances. We're monitoring the edge of the riot zone as it expands outward. The bigger it gets, the closer we're pushed to our limit.”

“If it's police business, you could requisition an atmospheric carriage,” the stationmaster said quietly.

“Confound it! I suppose we'll have to make our way to Miss Mayson's place, though we can ill afford the delay, and I daresay she's sick of us making off with her swans-” Swinburne stopped and looked at Mr. Arkwright. “What was that?”

“I said, if it's police business, you could requisition an atmospheric carriage. We've been moving them to the sidings since the crash, so there are plenty available. And there'll be no more trains on the line until daylight. If I wire ahead to the pump stations and signal boxes, you'll get a clear run. It's only sixty miles, and one carriage alone will do you a good fifty-five-miles-per-hour minimum.”

“You can supply a driver?”

“You won't need one, sir, which is just as well, since some of the beggars seem to have lost their heads and others have been taken ill. But no, it's all automated.”

Krishnamurthy punched a fist into his palm. “I'm in on this!” he snapped.

“Me too, if that's all right, sir,” Constable Hoare interjected.

Swinburne slapped his hands together. “Then let's get this rescue party moving!”

The atmospheric railway system was one of Isambard Kingdom Brunel's inventions. Between its wide-gauge tracks ran a fifteen-inch-diameter pipe, its top cut through lengthwise by a slot which was sealed with a leather flap-valve. Beneath the train carriages, a thin shaft ran down through the slot and was affixed to a dumbbell-shaped piston, which fitted snugly inside the pipe. Every three miles, pump stations sucked air out in front of the trains and forced it back into the pipe behind. The pressure differential shot the carriages along the tracks at great speed.

The run down to Winchester was fast and uneventful. They arrived at half-past four in the morning. The carriage drew to a halt and its passengers jumped down onto the station platform. The night guard greeted them.

“The police special from London,” he said, unnecessarily. “Commander?”

“Me,” Krishnamurthy answered. “Did passengers leave the previous train?”

“Just a small group, sir. A black fellow brought a steam-horse and wagon to meet them. Some sort of medical case. They were escorting the patient.”

“Richard!” Swinburne exclaimed. “And that must have been Bogle driving the wagon.”

“I don't know what you intend now, gentlemen, but there won't be any cabs available at this time of morning.”

“How far is it to Tichborne House, Mr. Swinburne?” Krishnamurthy asked.

“Four miles or so. I should think we can leg it across country.”

“Then let's do so!”

By virtue of its famous cathedral, Winchester was a city, but in size it was little more than a small town, and it wasn't long before the four men and one dog were beyond its bounds.

The land to the east was heavily farmed; a patchwork of wheat and cornfields separated by high hedgerows and well-trodden dirt paths; a rippled terrain of low hills and shallow valleys, with scarecrows darkly silhouetted against the starry sky.

They traversed it silently.

Swinburne was beside himself with anxiety, and his nervous energy infected the rest of the party, so that none of them felt the effects of their sleepless night. A grim mood overtook the group, and they walked with jaws set and fists clenched, expecting a battle and determined to win it.

Finally, they reached the brow of a hill and looked down at the Tichborne estate just as a vague hint of orange smudged the eastern horizon.

It occurred to Swinburne, when he looked at that first glimmering of dawn, that he was also looking in the direction of burning London, and he realised that whatever the enemy's plans were, they were coming to fruition now, and the one person who might be able to oppose them was either their prisoner-or dead.

The party was descending at an angle into the shallow valley at the back of the manor house, drawing closer to the willow-lined lake, when Constable Hoare pointed and asked: “Is that a man?”

It was.

A dead man.

For a dreadful moment, Swinburne thought it was Burton, but as they reached the body, which lay facedown beside a crooked tree, and turned it over, he recognised Guilfoyle the groundsman.

“What happened to him?” Krishnamurthy gasped.

All the capillaries beneath the skin of Guilfoyle's face had burst, and blood, still wet, had leaked from his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. His lips were drawn back over his teeth and frozen in an appalling expression of agony.

Herbert Spencer sighed. “Poor blighter. Nice chap, he was. Kept an eye on Miss Mayson's swans when I was a-stayin’ here afore. Saw to it that they had plenty to eat.”

A double-barrelled shotgun lay beside the corpse. Krishnamurthy picked it up and examined it.

“It's been fired. One barrel.”

“No lights showing in the house, sir,” Hoare noted.

“Oof!” Spencer grunted as Fidget yanked at his lead. “Looks like the dog has picked up the scent again!”

“Allow him to show us the way, Mr. Spencer,” Krishnamurthy ordered. “And voices low, please, gentlemen!”

Following behind the basset hound, they ran up the slope to the back of Tichborne House, crossed the patio, and entered cautiously through the open doors to the gunroom.

The house was silent.

Hoare touched his superior's arm and pointed to the floor. Krishna-murthy looked down and, in the dim light, saw black spots trailing across it. He bent and touched one, raised his finger to his nose, and whispered: “Blood. Someone's hurt.”

“Not Richard, I hope!” Swinburne hissed.

They moved across the chamber and out into the hallway, tiptoed along it, and passed into the large ballroom.

Fidget's nose, and the trail of blood, took them straight across the dance floor, out through another door, and along a passage toward the smoking room. Before they got there, the dog pulled them into an off-branching corridor.

“I thought so,” Swinburne muttered. “There are stairs ahead that lead down to the servants’ quarters, the kitchen, and the entrance to the labyrinth.”

“You think they have him under the Crawls, lad?” Spencer asked.

“I think it likely.”

Commander Krishnamurthy pulled his truncheon from his belt and nodded to Hoare to do the same.

“Move behind us, please, gentlemen,” he said. The poet and philosopher obeyed.

They crept on, reached the stairs, descended, and became aware of a low-pitched repetitive rumbling.

“It's Mrs. Picklethorpe's bloomin’ snorin’!” Spencer whispered.

A few steps later, voices came to them from the kitchen.

“Shhh,” Swinburne breathed. “Listen!”

“-knows the finances of the estate, so we need to keep the fool alive for the time being.”

The poet recognised the brash tones at once. It was Edward Kenealy.

“But can we make him cooperate?” came an unfamiliar voice. “He's a stubborn old sod.”

“He'll crack as soon as we get him near the diamonds again, don't you worry. He's very susceptible. No resistance at all. How's the doctor, Bogle?”

“He's bleeding badly, sir.”

A fourth man spoke, his voice tremulous: “I'll be all right.”

Swinburne recognised the tones.

“We need you for the seance, Jankyn,” Kenealy said.

“Just bandage me up tightly,” came the response. “Bogle can run me to the Alresford doctor later. I'll be fine for the seance.”

“I should dig out the pellets, sir.”

“No, Bogle,” Kenealy snapped. “There's no time. We have to contact the mistress as soon as we can. She wants to check on Burton's condition. Waite, help me find a table and chairs. We'll carry them to the central chamber. We have to conduct the seance in the presence of our prisoners.”

Krishnamurthy turned to his companions and whispered, “Four of ’em, and one disabled. Come on!”

He and Constable Hoare dashed forward, with Swinburne, Herbert Spencer, and Fidget at their heels. They hurtled into the kitchen and all hell broke loose.

Swinburne caught a glimpse of Jankyn, shirtless and bloodied, lying on a table with Bogle standing beside him. Edward Kenealy and a Rake-the man named Waite-were near the pantries.

“Stop! Police!” Krishnamurthy bellowed.

“Don't move!” Hoare shouted.

“Damnation!” Kenealy barked, swinging around and raising his right arm.

Swinburne dived aside as a bolt of blue lightning crackled out of the lawyer's hand and whipped across the room to envelop the policemen's heads.

Krishnamurthy covered his eyes and collapsed to his knees.

Hoare, though, took the full brunt of the attack. His body snapped rigid and rose six inches from the ground, floating within a dancing, sizzling aura of blue energy. He shook wildly and let loose a high-pitched howl of pain. His face turned red, then blue, and blood spurted from his nose and eyes.

“Bleedin’ heck!” yelled Spencer, who'd fallen against a cupboard. “Stop it!”

Swinburne looked around, saw a frying pan, and before he knew what he was doing, he'd grabbed and thrown it.

The pan hit Kenealy's forehead with a tremendous clang. The lawyer staggered, tripped, and fell onto his back. The energy shooting from his hand left Hoare, fizzled across the ceiling, and vanished.

The constable dropped.

Waite leaped over to a work surface, seized a wooden chopping board, and launched it at Swinburne. The poet ducked. It spun past his head and smacked against the wall behind him.

Krishnamurthy moaned and fell forward onto his hands.

Bogle picked up a dinner plate and pitched it in Spencer's direction.

Fidget barked and ran out of the room.

Kitchen implements were suddenly flying back and forth; pans, crockery, and cutlery, crashing and smashing with a deafening racket.

Constable Hoare's truncheon rolled to Spencer's feet. The philosopher grabbed it and sent it spinning through the air. It hit Waite in the throat, and the Rake doubled over, choking.

Krishnamurthy crawled forward, moaning with the effort. He'd almost reached Kenealy when the lawyer rolled over, turned, and looked up. Blood was streaming down his face from a wound in his forehead. He jerked a hand toward the policeman. Blue flame grew around his fingers.

“None of that!” the Flying Squad man groaned, and whacked his truncheon down onto the hand.

Kenealy screamed as his finger bones crunched.

Krishnamurthy slumped forward and passed out.

“What's the meaning of this!” demanded a voice from the doorway. It was Mrs. Picklethorpe, resplendent in her nightgown and hair curlers. A pan, launched by Bogle, hit her square between the eyes. She toppled back against the corridor wall and slid to the floor.

Swinburne flung a full bottle of wine at Bogle and whooped with satisfaction as it bounced off the Jamaican's head and exploded against a cupboard behind him. The butler swayed and buckled, dropping onto Kenealy.

The lawyer pushed his uninjured hand out in Swinburne's direction.

“I'll kill you!” he snarled.

Spencer bounded across the room and sent a thick hardbound cookery book thudding down onto Kenealy's head, knocking him cold. The heavy volume fell open at the title page: Miss Mayson's Book of Household Management.

“Well, I'll be blowed!” Herbert muttered. He bent and retrieved the volume then sent it slapping into the side of Waite's head. The Rake collapsed, out for the count.

Jankyn sat up and moaned. He held both his hands flat against his left side. Blood leaked between his fingers.

“Bastards!” he said huskily.

“You're hardly in a position to insult us,” Swinburne observed. “I assume Guilfoyle shot you?”

Spencer knelt and helped the recovering Krishnamurthy to his feet.

“Yes,” Jankyn groaned. “He tried to take Burton from us. Kenealy killed him but the man's shotgun went off as he died. The only working gun on the whole bloody estate, and I have to get it!”

“What was that lightning Kenealy fired from his hand?”

“Get me to a hospital. I'm bleeding to death.”

“Answer my questions and I'll consider it,” the poet answered, and Spencer had never heard the little man sound so grim.

“It's etheric energy. Kenealy has a talent for channelling it, which the mistress has enhanced.”

“The mistress? Who's she?

“She's the leader of-Ah! It hurts! I need treatment, man!”

“The leader of the Rakes? I know. And she's a Russian. But what's her name?”

“I haven't the foggiest, I swear! Enough! Enough! Look at this blood! Help me, damn it!”

“Is Burton alive?” Swinburne demanded.

“Possibly. He's in the centre of the labyrinth.”

“How many are in there, guarding him?”

“None.”

“You're lying.”

“I'm not.”

“If that's the way you want to play it, fine. Physician, heal thyself, and if you bleed to death, I'll not mind one little bit, you damned blackguard.”

“All right! All right! There's just one man, I swear. His name is Smithers. He and Waite took Burton from a seance to Paddington Station. They were-” he groaned and whimpered, then continued in a whisper “-they were joined by Kenealy there and all rode a train to Winchester. Bogle met them at the station with a carriage, but just outside Alresford the steam-horse broke down. They had to continue on foot, dragging Burton between them. As they crossed the grounds, Guilfoyle interfered and paid the price. Please, get me to the doctor now. I don't want to die.”

Krishnamurthy, who was being supported by Herbert Spencer, swore vociferously. “Neither did Sam Hoare, but he's lying there dead, you swine!”

Jankyn fell onto his side on the table and said faintly: “It wasn't me. Kenealy killed him.”

“Gentlemen,” Krishnamurthy said hoarsely, “if you'd be so kind as to help me bind and gag these three rogues-“he indicated the unconscious Kenealy, Bogle, and Waite”-I'll then remain here and see what I can do for the cook. Maybe, if the mood takes me, I'll attend to Jankyn, too. On the other hand, I might just let him die like the diseased dog he is.”

“Will you be all right? You look done in,” Swinburne said.

The commander was, indeed, in a bad way. There was blood oozing from his eyes, nose, and ears, and he was trembling uncontrollably.

“I'm afraid I'm not much up to running through tunnels at present but I'll be fine. I'll rest here once these bounders are secured, then I'll rustle up the local constabulary to sort this mess out while you get your man back to London.”

It took a few minutes to tie the men's hands and feet, after which Swinburne and the vagrant philosopher entered the pantry containing the door to the labyrinth. Fidget looked into the kitchen, saw that the violence had ended, and scampered after them.

They stepped into the tunnel and took off along it, passing under the house, beneath the carriageway, and toward the Crawls. The passages were well lit and nothing occurred to hamper their progress through the folding-back-on-itself spiral until they were close to the central chamber, when Swinburne, who was barrelling along as fast as his short legs would allow, skidded around one of the turns and ran slap bang into the Rake, Smithers, who'd been walking in the other direction. The two men went down in a tangle and started to punch, kick, and wrestle frantically until Spencer caught up with them. The philosopher calmly bent, grasped a handful of Smithers's hair, lifted the man's head, and slammed it hard against the stone floor. The Rake's arms flopped down and he lay still.

“Let's pull him along with us to the central chamber,” Swinburne panted.

They took an ankle each and dragged the prone form the last few yards until they exited the tunnel into the inner room.

“Is that you, um-um-um?” came a familiar voice.

“Algernon Swinburne. Hello, Colonel.”

“Bally good show! That is to say, I'm very pleased to see you.”

Lushington was sitting against the wall, hands bound behind his back, looking bedraggled, with his extravagant side whiskers drooping miserably.

“Burton's a goner, I fear,” he announced, nodding toward the small waterfall. “Lost his mind, the poor chap.”

The king's agent was slumped lifelessly in the water channel with his arms spread wide, wrists shackled to the wall on either side of the falling stream. Flowing out of the slot above, the hot water was descending straight down onto his head.

Swinburne let loose a shriek of rage and bounded across to his friend.

“Herbert, help me unbolt these bloody manacles!”

While he and the philosopher got to work, Lushington gave an account of himself.

“Not entirely certain how I came to be here, to be frank. These past months have been rather hazy. Bit of a nightmare, really. Was I supporting that fat fake? Rather think I was. Couldn't help myself. Every time he was anywhere near me, I was convinced he was Sir Roger. By Gad, I even spoke for the bounder in court! Didn't come to my senses, regain my wits, start to think straight, until I found myself being held captive here, wherever here is.”

“You're under the Crawls,” Swinburne revealed.

“Am I, indeed? Am I? Closer to home than I thought, then! Barely seen a soul for-how long? Days? Weeks?-apart from that scoundrel Bogle, who's been keeping me fed, and Kenealy, damn him for the rogue he is.”

“That's got it, lad,” Spencer muttered, yanking the manacles off Burton's wrists. He and Swinburne pulled the limp explorer across the floor, away from the water, and laid him down. His eyes opened and rolled aimlessly. He mumbled something. The poet bent closer.

“What was that, Richard?”

“Al-Masloub,” Burton whispered.

“What?”

“Al-Masloub.”

“What's he sayin’?” Spencer asked.

“Something in Arabic. Al-Masloub,” Swinburne replied.

“What's a bloomin’ Al-Masloub?”

“I don't know, Herbert.”

“He's been mumbling it over and over,” Lushington revealed. “Hasn't said another blessed word. Place in Arabia, perhaps?”

Spencer crossed to the colonel and began to pull at the cords that held the man's wrists.

Swinburne stared helplessly at the king's agent.

“What's happened to him?” he cried, aghast at his friend's vacant eyes. He took Burton by the shoulders and shook him. “Pull yourself together, Richard! You're safe now!”

“It's no use,” Lushington offered. “I'm afraid he's utterly loopy.”

“Al-Masloub,” Burton whispered.

Swinburne sat back on his heels. He turned to Herbert Spencer. A tear trickled down his cheek.

“What'll we do, Herbert? I can't get any sense out of him. I don't know what this Al-Masloub thing is!”

“First things first, lad. We should get him home.”

Burton suddenly sat up, threw his head back, and screamed. Then, a far more horrifying sound-he gave a mindless giggle. “Al-Masloub,” he moaned quietly. His eyes moved aimlessly. His mouth hung slackly. He slowly toppled onto his side.

Swinburne looked at him and sucked in a juddery breath. He couldn't help but think that the enemy had won. London, the heart of the Empire, was in chaos, and Burton, the only man who could possibly save it, looked like he might return to Bedlam-permanently!

M idmorning the following Saturday-two days after Burton's rescue-an extraordinary carriage thundered into Montagu Place. It was a huge box constructed from iron plate and mounted on six thick wheels. There were no windows in it-just a two-inch-high horizontal slot in each of its sides-and its doors looked better suited to bank vaults than to a conveyance. The driver, rather than being situated on top in the normal manner, was seated inside a wedge-shaped cabin at its front. He, like the passenger, was entirely hidden from prying eyes. From the four corners of the vehicle, crenellated metal bartizans projected, and in each one stood a soldier with a rifle in his hands.

It was nothing less than a small metal castle drawn by two large steam-horses. Accompanied by four outriders from the King's Cavalry, it rumbled, creaked, sizzled, and moaned to a standstill before number