The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

“The four copper rods of Battersea Power Station extend two and a half miles into the crust of the Earth. They conduct geothermal heat into the station, where it is converted into electrical energy. With this, we thought we’d be able to illuminate London from North to South, West to East. As it happens, the electricity generated is barely enough to light even the station. The project has been a grand, extravagant, ridiculous failure. I must confess, though; I like the building. It makes a good, secure headquarters.”

—FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ISAMBARD KINGDOM BRUNEL.

After spending the remainder of the afternoon strolling in Hyde Park with Isabel, Burton returned home and, shortly before his evening meal, sent a letter by messenger to Rossetti. By the time he’d fished eating—Mrs. Angell insisted on serving ridiculously large portions because he was “infected with Africa and needed fattening up”—a reply had come. Algernon Swinburne was currently touring the continent and wouldn’t be back until the middle of next month. Rossetti had, however, swung an invitation to Wallington Hall for Burton. This grand old manor, located in Northumberland and owned by Sir Walter Trevelyan, was a centre of artistic and intellectual endeavour due to Lady Pauline Trevelyan’s fondness for creative types, whom she collected around herself and, in many cases, generously sponsored. One of her week-long gatherings was set to begin on the 24th of October, and, according to Rossetti, Burton was most welcome to attend.

Swinburne would also be there.

The explorer sent a whispered thank you to Rossetti via the Irish ragamuffin and wrote a letter to Lady Trevelyan.

Later, he wrapped himself in his jubbah, lolled in his armchair, and contemplated the events of the day.

The British Empire was built on foundations laid by a ghost. His friend Monckton Milnes had secretly played a major role in history; and his own brother, whose belief in the Afterlife Burton had considered an aberration caused by brain damage—and whose position as the minister of mediumistic affairs he’d regarded as a joke—was sitting slap bang in the middle of it all.

He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander, hoping that, from its depths, some conception would arise to inject sense into what felt like a demented fantasy.

He waited for insight.

He fell asleep.

When he awoke at six on Tuesday morning, he was still in the armchair and his muscles were stiff and sore. He grumbled when Mrs. Angell served him a too-big breakfast but ate it all and drank the whole pot of coffee before dressing and leaving the house in a hurry.

He met Sadhvi Raghavendra and Captain Lawless at William Stroyan’s funeral where they all spoke movingly about their friend to the congregation. Burton struggled with his emotions as the coffin was lowered into the ground. He couldn’t imagine anything more horrifying than being buried.

Afterwards, they took a cab to the RGS.

The next two days were going to be filled with geographical matters, starting with this morning’s public presentation. They would, Burton hoped, be free of surprises. He’d accepted the king’s commission but, right now, didn’t want to think about it.

Isabel and Blanche took a break from their socialising to join the audience. Burton met them at the door and escorted them to seats at the front of the establishment’s auditorium. He then retired to a back room with Raghavendra and Lawless where they reviewed their notes.

By ten o’clock, when they took to the stage, the place was packed with journalists.

Sir Roderick Murchison made a brief speech before Burton moved to the podium and gave a long, detailed, and entertaining account of the expedition, the highlight of which was his description of the moment when he, Raghavendra, Stroyan, and Herne had climbed a hill and looked down on the waterfalls from which the Nile sprang. This was greeted by such wild cheering that it was heard in Scotland Yard and echoed all the way down Whitehall.

When Burton finished, Lawless took centre stage and gave a well-received account of his flight over the eastern shore of the great lake. He was followed by Sister Raghavendra, who told of her experiences and was rewarded with a standing ovation and cries of, “Hurrah for the Lady of the Nile!”

Burton came forward to take questions. Inevitably, the journalists, ever hungry for sensation, were more interested in the murder of Stroyan than in the geography of Africa. Having learned from them that Oliphant was at present locked up in Bedlam, Burton said it was the best place for him, and concurred with the prevalent theory that Lord Elgin’s private secretary had been driven mad by his opium addiction. Stroyan’s death was, unfortunately, needless and meaningless.

The presentation finished at three o’clock, but the explorer spent the rest of the day with his fellow geographers going over maps and measurements, notes and specimens, and didn’t leave the building until nightfall, by which time he was thoroughly exhausted and ready for bed.

There had been one significant moment.

Halfway through his speech, Burton had spotted in the audience the man who called himself Macallister Fogg. A minute later, when he looked again, that individual was gone.

Wednesday was also spent at the Society, this time presenting much more technical material to the senior committee—Murchison, Arthur Findley, Sir James Alexander, Colonel William Sykes, and Clement Markham. They spent considerable time matching Burton’s maps to those made by David Livingstone of the topography to the west of the Lake Region. Central Africa was beginning to make sense. Light was finally shining onto the Dark Continent.

Two busy days, during which Burton threw himself wholeheartedly into his role as the returning hero; the man who solved the riddle of the Nile; the explorer who’d braved dangerous lands and triumphed. He relished it because he knew it was the end. No more risking his life. No further need to prove himself. One preposterous hurdle remained, then Damascus.

He rose on Thursday morning with his geographical duties behind him and a plan of action in place. Foregoing breakfast—much to his housekeeper’s dismay—he left the house and plunged into the day’s fog, which, though not terribly thick, more resembled soot-speckled smoke and was corrosive to the throat and eyes.

The little urchin was on the opposite side of the road with newspapers draped over his arm and piled at his feet. He was yelling, “Death of mediums! Read all about it! Twelve mediums die in a single day! Cause unknown!”

Burton crossed and purchased a Daily Bugle. “What’s happened?”

“A great mystery, so it is, sir. Fortune tellers a-droppin’ dead, an’ there be no explanation for it at all.”

The explorer muttered, “Odd!” He pushed the paper under his arm, bade the lad farewell, and walked on, swinging his cane.

At the corner of Montagu Place, a vendor of hot chestnuts hailed him. “Mornin’, Cap’n! Glad to see you out o’ the jungle!”

“Good morning to you, Mr. Grub,” Burton called. “How’s business?”

“Can’t complain, an’ if I did, it wouldn’t make half a penny’s worth o’ difference! How you copin’ with the ’orrible pong, sir?”

“Pong?”

Grub pointed downward. “Of all that muck what’s swillin’ below!”

Burton remembered that, beneath his feet, sewage was rising in the new tunnels, its flow constricted by sluice gates. Incredibly, after just one week, his nose had already adjusted.

“I appear to have adapted to it, Mr. Grub.”

He continued into Gloucester Place, waved for a cab, and as its burly driver came into view, exclaimed, “You again!”

The hansom crunched to a standstill beside him and Montague Penniforth pushed goggles up from his eyes onto his forehead, looked down, removed a pipe from his mouth, and said, “Hallo hallo! Fancy that! It’s Cap’n Burton ’imself, as I live an’ bloomin’ well breathe!”

“Are you following me, Mr. Penniforth?”

“Not at all, guv’nor, it’s blessed chance, that’s what it is; another blinkin’ coincidence. Hop in. Where you hoff to?”

“The British Museum.”

As he climbed into the cabin, Burton cast a searching and suspicious glance at the driver. Penniforth, though sitting, was plainly very tall and so solid he might have been carved from granite. Burton had once been described as having the physique of a bull, but even if he’d been in full health—which he certainly wasn’t—he doubted he’d last long in a confrontation with this man.

Who are you, Mr. Penniforth? What are you up to?

The hansom rattled into Baker Street, navigated the traffic down to Oxford Street, then spent forty minutes traversing that hectic thoroughfare until it came to Great Russell Street. Burton passed the journey reading the newspaper. As the street Arab had proclaimed, over the course of the past week twelve mediums had been found dead, apparently from heart failure. All were discovered with a look of horror frozen on their faces, cause unknown.

The cab drew to a halt outside the famous museum.

A breeze had got up, and when Burton stepped down onto the pavement, he found the air had cleared somewhat but the temperature had risen.

He wiped sweat from his brow.

“Aye, guv’nor,” Penniforth observed as the explorer counted out his coins. “It’s goin’ to be another scorcher. Been the ’ottest summer I can remember. Will I wait for you?”

Burton handed over payment and said, “No, that won’t be necessary, thank you. But I have it in mind that we’ll meet again, Mr. Penniforth.” He flashed his eyes meaningfully at the cab driver. His gaze was met with a guileless grin.

“Could be so,” Penniforth said. “London hain’t Africa, is it? Crowded, aye, guv’nor, but small enough.” He applied his teeth to one of the coins, winked, pocketed it, then took hold of his vehicle’s tiller, shouted, “Gee-up, Daisy!” squeezed the accelerator lever, and went chugging away.

Burton watched him go.

He spent the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon sitting at a wide mahogany desk in the museum’s circular reading room. He searched countless Arabian and Indian texts but found not a single reference to Abdu El Yezdi. Whomever the spirit had been when alive, he’d evidently made no imprint worth recording. Burton found that rather unlikely. Surely a ghost who managed to so affect the greatest Empire in history must, in life, have possessed enough influence to be noticed?

He was on the point of leaving when, acting on impulse, he returned to his seat and asked an attendant to bring him material relating to The Assassination.

It didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. On the 10th of June 1840, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had been taking a carriage ride through Green Park. Eighteen-year-old Edward Oxford had stepped out of the crowd of onlookers, shot at the queen, and missed. An unknown individual, who bore some physical resemblance to the gunman, tackled him. In the struggle, the young lunatic’s second flintlock had gone off. The queen was hit in the head and died instantly. The unidentified man pushed Oxford to the ground, accidentally killing him, then took to his heels. A police constable, William Trounce, pursued him into a thicket at the northwestern corner of the park, where he’d found him inexplicably dead, his neck broken. The man, known as “the Mystery Hero,” had never been identified, his demise never explained.

Burton wondered whether the Mystery Hero and El Yezdi were one and the same. The spirit had started communicating soon after The Assassination, so may well have died around the same time. The theory had a nice symmetry to it, but unfortunately the dead man was plainly English, which made the Arabian name somewhat unlikely.

He left the museum and strolled along St. Martin’s Lane to Brundleweed’s. Frustratingly, the jeweller’s was still closed. Burton wondered when he was going to see Isabel’s engagement ring. He peered through the metal grille protecting the shop’s window. All appeared in order inside—clean, with items on display and tools set out neatly on the workbenches.

He continued on to the RGS. By the time he arrived there, he was perspiring freely and cursing the absurd restrictions of so-called civilised clothing. Having worn nothing but a loose cotton shirt, trousers, and a straw hat throughout his time in Africa, his collar now felt like a noose, his jacket like a cage, and his topper like a crown of thorns.

He went into the club room, stood at the bar, guzzled a refreshing glass of soda water sans alcohol, chatted with a quietly spoken fellow member named Richard Spruce, then left the building, crossed the road, and entered Scotland Yard.

He approached J. D. Pepperwick’s desk.

“Again?” the clerk exclaimed.

“Again,” Burton confirmed. “Is Detective Inspector Slaughter available? I’d like to speak with him, if possible.”

“Do you have an appointment, Captain Burton?”

“I have this.” Burton produced a small card—issued to him by Spencer Walpole—upon which certain words were printed, a certain seal stamped, and a certain signature scrawled.

Pepperwick took it, read it, and gaped. “I say! You’re an important fellow!” He hesitated a moment, then turned, reached up to a bracket of speaking tubes, lifted the lid of the one marked D. I. Slaughter, and pulled the tube free.

“There’s a gentleman to see you, sir,” he said into it. “Captain Richard—” He stopped, looked at the card again, and corrected himself. “I beg your pardon, Captain Sir Richard Burton.” He put the tube to his ear, then a few seconds later spoke into it again. “Yes, that’s right, sir, the Livingstone chap. He has, um, special authorisation.” He listened, responded, “At once, sir,” replaced the device, and smiled at Burton. “The inspector will see you straight away. Second floor, office number fourteen. The stairs are through there, sir.” He pointed to the left.

Burton said, “Thank you,” made for the indicated doors, and pushed through them. The wooden staircase beyond needed brushing and creaked as he climbed it. He reached the second floor and moved along a panelled corridor, passing closed rooms until he came to the one marked 14. He knocked.

“Come!” a voice called.

Burton entered and found himself in a high-ceilinged square room, well illuminated by a very tall window. Filing cabinets lined the wall to his left. A big portrait of Sir Robert Peel hung on the chimney-breast to the right. Two armchairs were arranged in front of the fireplace. There was a heavy desk beneath the window. Detective Inspector Slaughter, a slender and narrow-faced man with a tremendously wide, black, and bushy moustache and thick eyebrows, stepped out from behind it and strode forward, his hand outstretched.

“Sir Richard! Congratulations! The Nile! Splendid! Slaughter’s the name, sir. Sidney Slaughter, at your service.”

Burton, trying hard to ignore the line of white liquid that decorated the detective’s moustache, handed him his authorisation, which Slaughter examined with interest before exclaiming, “Stone the crows! His Majesty’s signature, hey?”

“Indeed so. I’ve been given special dispensation to look into the Babbage, Gooch, Brunel, and Nightingale abductions.”

“Oh ho! Have you, now! Well, to be frank, I’m utterly foxed by the whole affair and would appreciate any help you can offer. Would you care for a cigar? I smoke Lord Dandy’s. They don’t measure up to Havanas, but they’re quite acceptable.”

“Thank you.” Burton took the proffered smoke, accepted a light, puffed, and grunted approval.

“Drink?” he was asked.

“No, thank you.”

“You don’t mind if I do?” Slaughter waved the explorer into one of the armchairs before retrieving a large glass of milk from his desk. He seated himself opposite Burton and said, “I have to guzzle this blessed stuff by the gallon else my belly plays up something rotten. Acid imbalance, my doctor calls it. Stress of the job, I’d say. Who’d be a policeman in this rotten city, hey? The place is infested with villains. Anyway, the abductions.”

“Yes. What can you tell me about them?”

Slaughter leaned back in his chair. “Not a great deal, unfortunately. There’s been precious little progress, not for the want of trying. How much do you know?”

“Next to nothing.”

Slaughter lifted his glass to his lips and drained it, adding to the snowy fringe on his moustache. “Well now, old Charles Babbage was the first. He vanished from his home on Devonshire Street, Portland Place, on the fifth of August, ’fifty-seven. Initially, it was thought he’d made off of his own accord. He’d been under immense pressure to further refine the mechanical brains of his clockwork men and was almost certainly losing his mind.”

“There’s evidence of that?”

Slaughter nodded. “According to his wife, he was becoming increasingly and irrationally vexed by noise, especially that made by street musicians. He’d frequently fly into rages and harangue them from his bedroom window, and on three occasions he emptied his chamber pot over their heads.”

“I’ve often been tempted to do the same,” Burton noted.

“The point being that you didn’t, hey? Also, Babbage was obsessive about his work, but apparently he was starting to apply that same mania to rather inconsequential matters. For example, he counted all the broken panes of glass in a factory, then wrote a pamphlet entitled—what was it now? Ah, yes—‘Table of the Relative Frequency of the Causes of Breakage of Plate Glass Windows.’ You can see why, when he was reported missing, we were quick to conclude that he’d gone barmy and scarpered.”

Burton drew thoughtfully on his cigar. “Is there anything to suggest otherwise?”

“Nothing substantial, but an elderly neighbour, Mr. Bartholomew Knock, claimed to have seen Babbage marched into a carriage by two men. I have his written statement, which you’re welcome to examine, but I’m afraid it doesn’t amount to much, and Knock himself died during last year’s cholera epidemic.”

The police detective jumped to his feet and crossed to the filing cabinets. He opened a drawer and withdrew a cardboard folder.

“Are you sure you won’t take a drink, Sir Richard?”

“Perhaps a cup of tea, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Splendid!”

Slaughter went to his desk, pulled out a speaking tube, whistled for the person at the other end, and said, “Have a pot of tea and a couple of cups sent up, would you? Plenty of milk, please. And give my appointments to Detective Inspector Spearing until further notice.” He returned to his chair and handed the file to Burton. “I occasionally indulge in a cuppa. Plays merry havoc with the guts but it keeps the mind sharp, hey? So, where was I? Yes, Daniel Gooch, he was next to go. Like Babbage, he’s one of the big DOGS. He was last seen on Friday the eighteenth of March, this year. A very odd disappearance, his. He was in charge of construction at Hydroham—you know? The undersea town off the Norfolk coast?”

“I’ve read a little about it.”

“He was wearing an undersea suit—”

“A what?”

“It enables a man to work for prolonged periods on the seabed. Basically, a watertight all-in-one outfit, with air tanks attached. The wearer is completely covered, but for his face, which is visible through a glass plate in the front of the helmet. Gooch was sealed into such a suit, a chain was attached to it, and he was lowered into the water. An hour later, the suit was pulled back up to the boat. It was intact but empty. Gooch had vanished from inside it.”

“How?”

“Exactly. How? And no one has seen him since.” Slaughter frowned, his shaggy eyebrows shadowing his eyes. “Frustrating. Like all detectives, I’m allergic to mysteries. They put me on edge and make me bilious.”

Burton opened the file and scanned the pages. Mostly, they contained information about the people who’d vanished rather than anything useful that might explain how or why they’d gone.

“Brunel,” he said. “His case is also rather extraordinary.”

“Indeed so.”

There came a knock at the door and a short, white-haired woman shuffled in bearing a tray.

“Tea, sir,” she said.

“Thank you, Gladys. Put it on my desk. I’ll pour.”

The woman did as directed and departed. Slaughter went over to the tray.

“You’ll want milk?”

“No. Just sugar. Four spoonfuls, please.”

“Phew! You have a sweet tooth!”

“A taste I picked up in Arabia.”

Slaughter served the explorer. Burton then watched with mild amusement as the detective combined just a few drops of tea with a great deal of milk and cautiously sipped the mixture.

“So,” he asked the Yard man, “what exactly happened with Brunel at Penfold Private Sanatorium?”

Slaughter returned to his chair. “I spoke with a Sister Clements. She said he went there on Thursday evening and claimed he was going to suffer a stroke. The attack occurred early on Saturday morning. It was mild, but Clements was concerned it might be the precursor to something more serious. On Saturday night, at eleven o’clock, two men entered the hospital and attempted to abduct him. The nurses who tried to stop them were pretty ruthlessly rendered unconscious—”

“By what means?” Burton interrupted.

Slaughter raised a hand with the fingers held rigidly straight and made a chopping motion. “To the side of the neck.”

“Not a common method for an Englishman,” Burton mused.

“No. Am I right in thinking the technique is Oriental?”

“Yes. But the men weren’t?”

“No, though their appearance was, by all accounts, rather grotesque. As you’ll see in the report, it matches that of those infamous scoundrels and fugitives, Burke and Hare.”

Burton looked back at the file and turned a page. “But they were stopped?”

“They were indeed. The question is, by whom? Certainly, no police constables were sent to the sanatorium, yet two turned up in the nick of time and a right old punch-up ensued.”

“A fight?”

“Yes. And as skilled as the kidnappers might have been with their foreign chops and kicks, the two young men made good with honest bare knuckles, drove ’em off, and took Brunel away to safety. The only problem being that they didn’t say where ‘safety’ was.”

“And you’re certain they weren’t real policemen?”

“As I say, none was sent, none of our people reported the incident, and the men in question never identified themselves.”

Burton lifted his cup, drank from it, and said, “What did they look like?”

“Young. Indian. Not unusual. We have a great many Indian men in the Force.”

Sir Richard Francis Burton put his cup down, rattling it in the saucer. He looked at Slaughter and his mouth worked silently for a moment.

The detective frowned and said, “What is it? Indigestion? Tea too strong?”

Burton shook his head. “Would you—would you check to see whether there’s a Constable Bhatti in the ranks?”

Slaughter arched one of his extravagant eyebrows, nodded, and went to his desk. He used a speaking tube to call the Personnel Office, made the enquiry, then returned and stood in front of Burton.

“No, Sir Richard, there isn’t. Why do you ask?”

“Because late on Sunday night, I encountered a constable named Bhatti who knew where I lived, who appears to be in cahoots with a cab driver who’s been following me, and whose nose was swollen, as if he’d been in a fight.”

Slaughter looked surprised. “Our witness to the Nightingale kidnapping, which occurred on Sunday, said her abductors were Indian and one had a bloody nose.”

The explorer got to his feet, moved to the middle of the room, and faced the other man. “Detective Inspector, there are very few people who are aware that I’ve been assigned to this case. My brother, the minister of mediumistic affairs, is one of them. Four years ago, two young Indians, Ravindra Johar and Mahakram Singh, rescued him from a severe beating. They accompanied him home and he was placed in the very same sanatorium from which Brunel has disappeared. They then vanished, never to be seen again.”

“You think this Bhatti chap is one of them?”

“I do.”

Slaughter put his hands to his stomach. “What’s going on, Sir Richard?”

“Detective Inspector—I have no notion.”

Burton left room 14 feeling more perplexed than when he’d entered it. If Bhatti had approached him after he’d started this investigation, it might make sense. But he’d done so the day before Burton was given the task, which suggested a foreknowledge that wasn’t possible unless Edward had lied and was still in contact with his erstwhile saviours. If that was the case, what was he up to?

No. Edward was an arrogant and evasive bugger, but he was family, and as distant as they might be now, the bond they’d formed as children remained strong. Burton couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that his younger sibling was doing anything untoward.

He walked along the corridor toward the stairs. As he passed the door marked 19, he heard it creak open behind him. Fingers suddenly closed over the back of his collar and a pistol was pushed between his shoulder blades. A familiar voice said, “Inside! Now!”

He was yanked into the room, whirled around, and given a violent push. The door slammed shut as he sprawled onto the floor. He rolled and looked up at Macallister Fogg.

“What the—?” he spluttered.

“Be quiet!” Fogg growled, brandishing his gun. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Which?” Burton asked.

“What?”

“Should I be quiet or should I tell you?”

“Humph! Don’t play the clever beggar with me. Answer the confounded question.”

Burton raised a hand. “I’m going to retrieve something from inside my jacket. It isn’t a weapon, so don’t get jittery and start shooting.”

“Slowly.”

Reaching into his inner pocket, Burton pulled out his authorisation card and threw it to Fogg’s feet. The man squatted, his aim remaining steady, retrieved it, and read it.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “The king!”

“Exactly,” Burton said. “I’m getting to my feet now.” He pushed himself up. “I suggest you put that pistol away and tell me your real name. I take it you’re an actual police detective rather than a character from the penny bloods.”

“I am. Detective Inspector William Trounce. I entered the lobby while you were talking to Pepperwick, saw you, waited for you to finish with Slaughter, and—” The man shrugged, pocketed his pistol, handed back the authorisation card, and gazed searchingly at Burton. His eyes were bright blue and, Burton thought, despite his aggression, good-natured in appearance.

The explorer said, “What’s it all about? This habit you’re developing of throwing me around is becoming quite irritating. Am I right in thinking you’re the same Trounce who was at The Assassination?”

Trounce’s eyes narrowed. “You saw me there?”

Burton gave a puff of annoyance. “I’ve already told you—I was at sea. So you were the constable who discovered the Mystery Hero?”

The detective’s shoulders slumped. “There’s plenty who say I killed him.”

“Did you?”

“No. You did.”

Burton laughed. He stopped abruptly when he saw that Trounce was serious. He took a deep breath and hissed it out between his teeth.

“All right, Detective Inspector. Why don’t we, as the Americans say, lay our cards on the table? Tell me the whole story, and I give you my word of honour, I’ll answer honestly any question you care to ask.”

Trounce held the explorer’s gaze for a second then gave a curt nod. “Not here,” he said. “As far as The Assassination is concerned, I’ve received nothing but ridicule and suspicion inside this damned building. Will you take a pint with me?”

Burton really didn’t feel like indulging, but he lifted a finger to his bruised eye and said, “You owe me one.”

A few minutes later, the two men stepped out of Scotland Yard, turned left into Whitehall, and followed it along into Parliament Street. They didn’t speak a word until reaching a corner, when Trounce said, “Here.” They rounded it into Derby Street and, a few paces later, arrived at the Red Lion public house.

They ordered beer, settled into a relatively quiet corner, and remained wrapped in their own thoughts until the pot-boy delivered their flagons of ale.

Trounce drank half of his in a single swallow, then regarded Burton and said, “It’s been the bane of my bloody life.”

“The Assassination?”

“Yes.”

“I was reading about it in the British Museum Library this morning.”

“And I suppose you read that I chased the so-called Mystery Hero into the trees where I found him dead?”

“Isn’t that what happened?”

“Not exactly. Certain parts of my report were suppressed.”

“What parts?”

Trounce’s left hand curled into a fist. He looked at it with a slight air of bemusement, as if it were acting under its own volition.

“I found the body, all right, but that’s not all. Draped over a branch beside it, there was the strangest suit of clothes I’ve ever seen. A one-piece costume of shiny white material, like fish scales; a black helmet; and a pair of extraordinary boots, such as a stilt-walker might wear. Before I could take a proper look, I heard movement behind me, turned, and was immediately cracked in the head with a rifle butt. By the time I regained my wits, my attacker and the suit were gone.”

“So someone else was there. No other witnesses?”

“A street-sweeper saw a man climbing over the park wall into Piccadilly. He was carrying a large bag, a jewel case, and a rifle. The description matched the man who knocked me senseless.” Trounce took another swig of beer then angrily dragged his wrist across his mouth. “It was you.”

Burton shook his head. “In your estimation, how old was this man?”

“Your age. No. A few years older.”

“Older than my age now or my age in 1840?”

“Now. I know, I know, it couldn’t have been you.”

“Detective Inspector, I was nineteen and on a ship. My father, who bears no resemblance to me, was in Italy. My brother, who is three years my junior, was in India. All of this can be easily proved. The person you saw had no connection to me whatsoever.”

Reluctantly, Trounce gave a guttural acknowledgement. He stared miserably into his almost empty flagon.

“I was very young—barely out of short trousers—and new to the Force. They said I panicked, reacted to events, and confused the Mystery Hero with the assassin. Some even suggested I killed him, invented the other man, and paid the witness to support my story.” His upper lip curled into a snarl. “Utter bollocks! I saw what I saw!”

Burton observed unfeigned confusion in the detective’s eyes. The man had assaulted him, lied to him, and accused him of a crime, yet the explorer felt himself taking an inexplicable liking to the fellow. There was something very down-to-earth about Trounce. He had passion and sincerity. He appeared trustworthy and reliable.

“Detective Inspector—” he said.

“Just Trounce. I’m off duty now.”

“Very well. Mr. Trounce, I’m investigating Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s disappearance—”

“Slaughter’s case?”

“Yes. But there’s more to it. I can’t tell you what—it’s a state secret. Suffice it to say, certain aspects of it appear to hark back to the time of The Assassination. For that reason, I’d rather like to meet this sweeper of yours. Is he still around?”

“Yes. He lives in Old Ford, a village to the northeast of London. Can you fly a rotorchair?”

“Yes.”

“Come by the Yard tomorrow morning. I’ll procure a machine for you and we’ll pay him a visit.”

“There’s no need for you to—”

Trounce guzzled the last mouthful of beer and slammed his flagon onto the table.

“Whether you like it or not, Burton, I’m going to be behind you every step of the way. I need a solution to this accursed mystery!”

“Very well. In that case, I’ll have the home secretary order Chief Commissioner Mayne to assign you to the investigation. Can you work with Slaughter?”

“Yes, he’s a decent sort. You have the authority to do that?”

“I do. And if Mr. Walpole gives permission, I’ll fill you in on the rest.”

Trounce’s eyes flashed with determination. “By Jove!” he growled. “If you can help me to clear my name, I’ll be in your debt for life!”

He scowled thoughtfully.

“Is there something else?” Burton asked.

Trounce’s nostrils flared slightly. “Just—just—Humph! A suggestion I made at the time. It was dismissed outright.”

“Tell me.”

“When I recovered my wits, I went down to the path and examined Victoria’s corpse.”

“And?”

“The manner in which her blood had sprayed across the carriage and ground—it looked to me like the bullet struck her in the back of her head, not the front.”

Burton leaned back in his seat. “In other words, you don’t think Edward Oxford killed her. You think the man with the rifle did.”

“Yes. The man who looked like you.”