The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

PATENT

CONVEX HERALDIC JEWELLERY

Raised Arms, Crests, and Monograms on

Watches, Studs, Lockets, Sleeve-Links, &c.

Also, Egyptian Gold, Eudialyte Rings, Carbon Diamonds

BRUNDLEWEED JEWELLERS

Creator of the renowned “Brundleweed Necklace.”

St. Martins Lane, London

The following morning, the remnants of ruined chimneys, dislodged roof tiles, and pieces of a decimated summer house were heaped against the walls of Wallington Hall, along with a huge mass of unidentifiable debris. The grounds were strewn with leaves, twigs, branches, and fallen trees. A phaeton carriage—not belonging to the estate and probably not even from Kirkwhelpington—lay crumpled beside an ornamental pond. South-facing windows had broken and rooms were in disarray. The guests confined themselves to the inner chambers while the staff cleared the mess and started repairs.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Lady Pauline declared. “What a storm!”

No one had slept well. They’d risen late and breakfast was more of an early lunch. After it, Burton, Monckton Milnes, and Levi took a stroll to survey the damage. The winds were still high and the sky filled with scudding clouds.

“I think I’ll head back to Fryston,” Monckton Milnes said. “I’m concerned there might be nothing left of it. Will you come, Richard?”

“I’ll pass, if you don’t mind, old fellow. I want to spend a little more time with young Algernon. Perhaps he’ll allow me to mesmerise him. As you suggested, El Yezdi certainly did so, and I’d like to peel away whatever mantle he cast over the lad’s memory.”

“You think there was more to their meeting, then?”

“I suspect so. I can’t imagine how or why, but the poet is obviously connected with the business.”

“And with you, my scar-faced friend. Gad! It’s confirmed, then. The whole El Yezdi in the Afterlife idea was nonsense, and the British Empire has been manipulated for two decades by—by—”

“By a living person,” Burton said. “And you find that less acceptable than a ghost?”

“I was going to say, by a foreigner.”

Burton laughed. “By Allah’s beard! That’s far, far worse!”

“Désastreux!” Levi agreed.

They rounded a corner and saw a steam sphere tearing up the drive toward the house. It skidded to a halt in front of the main entrance, hissing forth a final plume of vapour before its engine fell silent. The vehicle’s door hinged upward and Detective Inspector Trounce stepped out. He saw them and waved them over.

“By Jove, Burton,” he cried out. “You’ve a lot to answer for!”

“What on earth are you doing here, Trounce? And what do you mean?”

“Chief Commissioner Mayne has issued a temporary ban on me flying police rotorchairs.”

“Why so?”

“Because you destroyed two of the confounded things while under my supervision. So, what with last night’s storm throwing tree trunks all over railway tracks, I had no option but to come here in this contraption. What a bloody drive! The roads are hellish!”

“I doubt a rotorchair would survive these winds, anyway,” Burton said. He contemplated the metal globe and thought he heard something thudding at its rear. “But why make the journey? Has there been another abduction?”

“No, there’s been a shipwreck.”

Monckton Milnes, who’d walked to the back of the vehicle, said, “What have you brought with you, Detective Inspector?”

“Nothing. Not even a change of blessed clothes. Burton, the tempest grounded a ship off Anglesey at one-thirty last night. It’s called the Royal Charter!”

Burton’s hands curled into fists.

“There’s something moving in here,” Monckton Milnes said. He reached down to the latch, clicked it open, and lifted the door of the sphere’s storage compartment.

“Great heavens!”

Burton crossed to him, looked into the vehicle, and saw Abraham Stoker curled up in the confined space.

“Would ye be good enough to help me out?” the youngster moaned. “I can’t move a bloomin’ muscle.”

Trounce joined them and exclaimed, “A stowaway? What the dickens are you playing at, lad? Don’t tell me you’ve been in there all the way from London?”

Burton and Monckton Milnes lifted the boy out and held him while he tried to straighten his limbs.

“Aye, that I have, Mr. Fogg. I’m sorry, but if you’re off on one of your adventures, then you’ll need an assistant, an’ I’m just the boy for the job, so I am!”

Monckton Milnes gave the Scotland Yard man a quizzical look. “Fogg?”

Trounce groaned.

Burton told Monckton Milnes, “When he began investigating me, Trounce tried to throw me off the track by using the name Macallister Fogg, which he took from this boy’s favourite penny blood.”

“Spur of the moment,” Trounce muttered. “And damned foolish. So now I know who’s been following me. What the blazes are we going to do with the little ragamuffin?”

“We’ll have him tag along with us to Anglesey,” the explorer responded. “He might prove useful. He’s a Whisperer.”

Bram started to rub his arms and shake his legs as the blood returned to them. “Ouch! Ouch! I won’t be any trouble, Mr. Fogg. I promise. And—aye!—you’ll have the whole Whispering Web at your disposal, so you will!”

Trounce said, “Humph!”

“And Anglesey, did I hear ye say? Ain’t that in Wales, now? It’s a barren part o’ the country, so it is. There are more Whisperers there than telegraph offices, to be sure.”

The detective held up his hands in surrender and grumbled, “All right, all right!”

Burton surveyed the devastated grounds and the fast-moving clouds. “How the blazes are we going to travel? There are no trains, you say, Trounce?”

“All services cancelled.”

“The Orpheus,” Monckton Milnes offered. “You have the authority to commandeer it, Richard, and the airfield isn’t far from here. I daresay a machine of that size can manage this wind.”

A shrill voice suddenly proclaimed:

Orpheus, the night is full of tears and cries,

And hardly for the storm and ruin shed

Can even thine eyes be certain of her head

Who never passed out of thy spirit’s eyes,

But stood and shone before them in such wise

As when with love her lips and hands were fed,

And with mute mouth out of the dusty dead

Strove to make answer when thou bad’st her rise.

Abraham Stoker gave a yelp of alarm. “Oy! What’s that thing?”

“That thing,” Burton answered, “is Algernon Swinburne.”

The poet—who’d descended the front doorsteps gesticulating wildly as he recited—approached them. His hair flew about his head like a tumultuous conflagration.

“Hallo, hallo, and thrice hallo!” he cried out. “And one for the nipper, too—hallo! The Orpheus? Your African airship, Richard? Surely you’re not leaving us already?”

“We have to fly to Anglesey, Algy. There’s been a shipwreck. It has some bearing on the matters we spoke of last night.”

“On El Yezdi, you mean? Then I’m coming, too!”

“There’s no need for—”

Swinburne stamped his foot and screeched, “Nonsense! Balderdash! Tosh and piffle! Rot and poppycock! A shipwreck? A shipwreck? By my Aunt Betty’s beastly blue bonnet! It’s the very stuff of poetry!”

Trounce whispered to Burton, “Who—?”

“Later,” the explorer replied. He made a snap decision. “We’re wasting time. Trounce, Bram, Algy, we’ll borrow the stagecoach and set off for the airfield at once.” He turned to Monckton Milnes. “Fryston is on the way, I believe? We’ll drop you and Monsieur Levi there. I’m afraid we’ll have to abandon our plan to travel together to New Wardour Castle.”

“I’ll go there by train. I daresay the tracks will be cleared by next week.”

“Un moment, s’il vous plaît,” Levi interrupted. “Is it an inconvenience if I accompany you, Sir Richard? If you are to fly on the Orpheus, I have the opportunity to examine the room where Oliphant make his ritual. I wish to see it, though the glass and floor are clean now, I think. Aussi, this Royal Charter affair is connected, non?”

Burton gave his consent, and an hour later, having packed and bade an apologetic farewell to Lady Pauline and her remaining guests, Burton and his companions were rattling northwestward in the stage. The driver made the best speed he could but the roads were hazardous, being littered with debris, and it took them two hours to reach Fryston—where they bid Monckton Milnes adieu—and another to get to the airfield.

Upon reaching the Orpheus, Burton hurried aboard and was greeted by a surprised Doctor Quaint, who escorted him to Captain Nathaniel Lawless’s cabin.

“By James!” the airman exclaimed, gripping Burton’s hand. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until the engagement party. Are you recovered? You look somewhat battered, if you’ll pardon the observation.”

“I’m done with the malaria, Captain, but I was involved in an unfortunate accident. No permanent damage. What’s the state of the ship? Can you get her into the air right away?”

“She’s being fitted with armaments in preparation for the signing of the British–German Alliance—we’ll be providing security at the ceremony—but I could afford to take her on a short excursion. We have no supplies aboard, though, and I’m not keen on flying in this wind. Where do you want to go?”

“Anglesey, on the west coast.”

Lawless squinted. “Hmm. About a hundred and seventy miles southwest. That’s straight into the gale, which’ll make it simpler but slower.”

“I’ll need top speed, and you can forego the paperwork.”

“I’m not sure you have—”

Burton thrust forward the card issued by the Home Secretary.

“—the authority,” Lawless finished lamely. “Oh, you do. No paperwork, then. Good! I can’t abide all the damned bureaucracy. I’ll need half an hour to get the engines warmed up then we’ll be off.”

“Thank you, Lawless.”

It was a bumpy flight, but Captain Lawless and his crew, whose loyalty to Burton was absolute, squeezed every ounce of power from the airship’s mighty engines, bullying the dirigible into the headwind and exhausting themselves as they battled to keep the ship stable. At six o’clock, having made excellent time, they landed half a mile west of Moelfre Village, in Dulas Bay, Anglesey Island, on the northwest coast of Wales.

“We can’t tether her here,” Lawless told Burton. “The gale will tear her to ribbons. I’ll take her down, you jump off, and I’ll find a more sheltered spot inland.”

“I can’t ask any more of you, old chap. Get back to Yorkshire. I’m going to be here for a day or two, I suspect.”

Lawless saluted. “Very well. As always, glad to have been of service.”

Burton, Trounce, Levi, Swinburne, and Bram left the Orpheus, watched as it rose up and shrank rapidly eastward, then walked toward the coast. They breasted a shallow hill and were suddenly confronted by a scene of such turmoil that their hearts missed a beat.

“God in heaven!” Trounce cried out.

Below them, half a mile away, the people of Moelfre were milling about on a flat shelf of limestone, against the seaward edge of which waves of enormous size were crashing, sending white spray high into the air. Behind the crowd, a great many corpses had been laid out—Burton estimated at least three hundred—and, heedless of the risk to their own lives, the villagers were pulling more from the violent waters. Screams and shouts carried up to the onlookers.

But even such human drama and tragedy could not long distract from the spectacle being enacted a quarter of a mile out to sea where, against a bank of upthrusting stone fangs, a large steam clipper was being relentlessly smashed to pieces. Mastless and broken almost in two, it was pitching and rolling, falling apart as the sea pounded savagely against it. Even from this distance, Burton and his companions could hear the loud booms and cracks of the vessel’s destruction.

“The Royal Charter,” the explorer whispered.

Swinburne suddenly sprang forward, pulling his jacket off and flinging it aside as he bounded down the slope. “There’s someone still aboard!” he shrieked.

Burton and Trounce set off after him, with Levi and Bram at their heels.

The poet yanked off his shirt.

“Collect his clothes, Bram,” Burton shouted, then, “Algy! Don’t be a bloody fool! You’ll be killed!”

Swinburne ignored the warning, leaped onto the shelf, kicked off his shoes, ducked through the crowd, and before anyone could stop him, plunged into the sea.

“Bismillah!” Burton gasped as the raging waters engulfed the little poet. He dropped onto the wide ledge and joined the villagers, who were yelling, “Dere nôl! Dere nôl!” which he correctly supposed was Welsh for, “Come back!”

“There! Regardez!” Levi hollered, levelling a finger toward the pilothouse near the stern of the clipper’s splintering deck. The structure had been almost entirely torn away and a figure was plainly visible within, propped upright against the ship’s wheel.

One of the villagers, a churchman, shouted something to Burton, who—Welsh being one of the few languages he didn’t speak—snapped, “In English, Father?”

The rector called to a young constable, who came over, listened to him, then said to Burton, “That man on the wreck, sir. It’s the captain. Determined to go down with his ship, he is. As if we don’t have sufficient deaths on our hands.”

Burton anxiously scanned the turbulent waters. He saw a flash of red. He could barely believe it. Algernon Swinburne, who looked so weak and delicate, was swimming like a seal and was already halfway to the Royal Charter.

“How many survivors?” Burton asked, distractedly.

“Just one, may the devil take him.”

Seeing Burton’s shocked reaction, the policeman went on, “A member of the crew managed to swim ashore. Another followed him—a regular giant of a man, he was—and the moment he set foot on land, he took hold of his crewmate’s head, broke his neck, and ran off.”

Trounce said, “Constable, I’m Detective Inspector Trounce of Scotland Yard. When was this?”

“About two in the morning, sir. Half an hour after the ship ran aground. The lads from all the stations on Anglesey are searching the area. I hope they’re travelling in pairs. That fellow could snap a person in half.”

A cheer went up. Incredibly, Swinburne had reached the jagged rocks and was clambering up them in an astounding display of agility.

“Is he really a poet, Mr. Fogg?” Bram Stoker asked. Trounce nodded.

Burton was unable to tear his eyes from the scene. He had a lump in his throat. The red-headed figure sprang across a gap and caught at the shattered planks of the clipper’s hull just as the vessel floundered laterally until its side was almost horizontal. Swinburne rose to his feet, ran forward, then dropped and clung on tightly as the ship sank down again. A horrible grinding sounded as wood fragmented.

“He’s made it,” Trounce gasped as Swinburne vaulted over a brass rail onto the sloping deck. “By Jove! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

The crowd yelled their encouragement as the poet raced toward the stern, then screamed in alarm as he was swamped by a monumental hump of water. The wave buried the ship and exploded onto the rocks, sending spray so high the wind caused it to rain over the onlookers, drenching them. For a terrible moment, the Royal Charter was completely lost from view, but then it reared up again and, with a shattering crash, broke completely in half. The prow swung skyward before ploughing into the ragged stone teeth. Its entire mass crumpled and flew into pieces.

At Burton’s side, the village rector wailed and began to sob.

Trounce clutched Burton’s arm, his fingers digging in, and the scarcely healed bone flared with pain. The explorer didn’t register the shock of it at all, but his vision suddenly clarified, and every tiny detail of the destruction he was witnessing took on equal weight and significance. His knees gave way and Trounce caught him and held him upright, but the explorer was oblivious. All he knew was that, in the sternmost remains of the clipper, which was now swivelling its broken end to face shoreward, there was a figure slumped loosely against the wheel, and beside it, Algernon Swinburne.

The wreck lurched. The poet fell. He slithered across the deck and shot into the sea.

The last part of the vessel rolled over, was driven into the rocks, and fragmented.

“Je ne peux pas le voir!” Levi said. “I can’t see him!”

“For the love of God, Trounce,” Burton croaked, “let go of my arm!”

He straightened and cradled his forearm against his body.

The village constable looked around as a man approached and addressed him. He answered and, after the other had departed, said to Burton, “That was Bob Anwyl of the coastguard station. He says the tide is on the turn. There’ll likely be no more bodies washed ashore. We’re going to take these—” he gestured toward the many dead, “—up to Moelfre Church’s hall. The county coroner is on his way. I’m sorry about your friend. He was very brave.”

“And very alive!” Trounce yelled. “By God, will you look at that!”

Sure enough, Swinburne, bedraggled, exhausted, and with a package held tightly under his right arm, was climbing back onto the limestone shelf. Villagers hurried forward to help him, while others enthusiastically cheered his bravery. Burton and Trounce pushed through them. The explorer took off his coat and threw it across the poet’s shoulders.

“He was dead,” Swinburne panted, “and tied to the ship’s wheel. Let me sit down. I’m fagged!” He collapsed to the ground. “This was in his pocket.” He passed the packet up to Burton.

“I should take that, gents,” the constable objected.

“I outrank you, young man,” Trounce said. He indicated Burton. “And he outranks me.”

The parcel was about the size of a book and was very tightly wrapped in sealskin and secured with waxed twine. Burton handed it to Trounce. “We’ll examine it later. Let’s get Algy dry first.”

The constable whistled to a portly gentleman, who waddled over and was introduced as Bevan Llewelyn, proprietor of the Rhoslligwyspite Inn. The name might have been unpronounceable, but the prospect of ale, warmth, and comfort was enough to propel Swinburne back to his feet with a cry of, “Lead on, dear fellow! A tipple will do me a world of good!”

“You didn’t swallow enough of the Irish Sea?” Trounce enquired.

Bram passed over the poet’s clothes and a minute later Swinburne was hastening toward Moelfre with the rest of them trying to keep up.

“Is this him fagged?” Trounce wondered. “By Jove, Burton, but you keep some strange company!”

Bram piped up, “He’s like one of ’em froons what captured ye in Greece, is that not the case, Mr. Fogg?”

“You probably mean fauns,” Burton put in. “And whatever you’re referring to was just a story, lad.”

“To be sure, sir! The Baker Street Detective, issue nine hundred and eight, if I be rememberin’ rightly. The Case of the Greek Interloper.”

“I’m not Macallister Fogg,” Trounce protested.

Bram grinned and gave him an exaggerated wink. “Don’t you be a-worrying, sir. Me lips are sealed, so they are.”

When they reached the outskirts of the village, Burton looked back and saw a long line of people, all in pairs, slowly carrying the drowned toward the little settlement. He shook his head sadly. He was no stranger to death, but had never witnessed such a terrible toll.

The Rhoslligwyspite Inn—or “Rosie with Spite,” as Swinburne rechristened it, before then mutating it into “The Spiteful Rosie”—was a small but comfortable pub. It had two upstairs rooms available for guests, both of which Burton paid for. He, Levi, and Swinburne changed into dry clothes. Neither Trounce nor Stoker had brought any, so they requested that the fire be lit in one of the chambers, then stood in front of it and steamed.

They all rested. Llewelyn delivered well-filled bowls of beef stew and bottles of ale, all “on the house” due to Swinburne being regarded as a hero. Slowly, the bar downstairs filled, though its conversations were subdued. The villagers had been up all the previous night and through the day, so didn’t remain for long. By eleven o’clock, silence reigned, and even the wind had worn itself out and could only manage a few pitiful whimpers.

Burton and his colleagues—minus Bram, who’d fallen asleep—gathered in the downstairs lounge, pulling armchairs around a coffee table by the fireplace. Llewelyn told them they could help themselves to beer, then locked up and went to bed.

“Damned calamity,” Trounce muttered. “Worst wreck in living memory. I shall never get the image of all those corpses out of my head.”

“Il était terrible,” Levi agreed.

Burton adjusted the wick of the nearest lamp and, by its increased light, started to unwrap the package Swinburne had recovered.

“I meant to ask, Trounce—how did you know?”

“About the ship? The lifeguard station here telegraphed the Admiralty as soon as the clipper was grounded. In such cases, because a police presence is often required shoreside, the Force is always alerted. I was just finishing my shift when I happened to overhear a conversation about it. You’d already shown me the telegraph message received on the Orpheus during the aurora phenomenon,” he tapped his head, “and things clicked, so I jumped into a steam sphere and drove all night through the storm. Thus the bags under my eyes.”

“Good man,” Burton said. “By James, this package is tightly swaddled!”

He unfolded the sealskin only to find a second layer beneath. This, too, was removed.

Swinburne leaned forward. “What is it?”

“The ship’s log.” Burton opened the book. “Somewhat damp and some of the ink has run, but the wrapping did a good job. It’s readable.” He spent a few minutes examining it page by page. “The captain was Thomas Taylor.”

“Lashed himself to the wheel,” Swinburne murmured.

“He do it himself?” Levi exclaimed.

“Yes. I could tell by the manner in which he was bound.”

Burton read from the log. “Departed Melbourne on the first of August, bound for Liverpool. Three hundred and seventy-five passengers. A hundred and twelve crew. Carrying a large consignment of gold.”

He turned one page after the other. “She was making good headway.” He moved a few pages on, stopped, frowned, and flicked backward to an earlier point. “Strange. Algy, would you mind reading to us? Are you up to it?”

Trounce moved to object—surely the poet was exhausted!—but before he could utter a sound, Burton’s eyes flashed a warning. The detective froze, then leaned back in his chair and said nothing.

“I most certainly am,” Swinburne cried out. “Hand it over.”

Burton passed the logbook to Swinburne, open at the page he’d selected. The poet curled his left foot up onto the chair and began to read. His voice took on the unique quality Burton had noticed at Wallington Hall, and within moments the explorer, occultist, and Scotland Yard man were entirely immersed in the account.