Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon bas-3

by Mark Hodder

  “So you admit to the actions of Vincent Sneed yet still say you aren't him?”

  The little man wrung his hands together then raised them to cover his face.

  “Yes,” he groaned.

  “Does the name Zeppelin mean anything to you?”

  Sneed parted his fingers and looked out from behind them. “Zephram?”

  “Zeppelin.”

  “I don't know no Zeppelin.”

  Burton turned to Trounce and Honesty. “Would you hand the prisoner over to your Egyptian colleagues, please?”

  The two detectives nodded, stepped forward, and hoisted Sneed up off the bed.

  “No!” he screeched, writhing in their grip. “Get yer 'ands off me!”

  “No nonsense, if you please!” Trounce snapped.

  They bundled him out of the cabin, to where four Egyptian constables waited. Sneed howled.

  Burton, speaking fluent Arabic in the local dialect, quietly addressed Al-Mustazi: “Despite my threats to the man, I'd prefer it if you kept him from the worst of it. I sent my parakeet to the consul as soon as we landed with a request that the prisoner be processed with due dispatch. He'll be handed over to British authorities and sent home in a few days but there's no need to tell him that. Let him think he's going to be in Cairo prison for the long haul, it may teach him a lesson.”

  Al-Mustazi murmured an acknowledgement, bowed, and departed.

  Burton left the cabin and met Trounce and Honesty in the corridor. They headed up to the passenger lounge.

  “Strange!” said Honesty. “Why so stubborn?”

  “It's odd, I'll admit,” Burton replied. “And there was something else rather peculiar, too. He kept glancing up at the ceiling.”

  “I noticed that,” Trounce grunted. “I wonder why?”

  The three men joined Swinburne, Krishnamurthy, Bhatti, and Herbert Spencer in the lounge. The clockwork philosopher was incapable of drinking or smoking but he enjoyed company and needed the mental relaxation, despite that his mind was an electrical field processed by a machine. With Pox on his head, he sat at the bar with the men, who sipped at their brandy and sodas and gazed at the scattered lights of the city's houses and minarets. Burton smoked one of his disreputable Manila cheroots, Trounce opted for a rather more expensive Flor de Dindigul Indian cigar, while Honesty and Krishnamurthy puffed at their pipes. Neither Swinburne nor Bhatti smoked. The poet compensated for it by consuming twice as much brandy.

  “Steady on,” Burton advised him.

  “I need it,” his assistant answered. “I'm frustrated. Willy Cornish is a splendid young man, and I can't for the life of me think why he would defend a scurrilous miscreant like Sneed. And now he's vanished into the pipes and probably won't emerge until he's starving!”

  “Needs interrogating!” Honesty snapped. “Spill the beans. Tell us what Zeppelin is up to.”

  “Dribbly snot-rag!” Pox cawed.

  “I don't understand it,” Krishnamurthy said. “Why would the Prussian hire a villain Mr. Swinburne could recognise in an instant?”

  “Perhaps he didn't know that we'd encountered Sneed before,” Bhatti suggested.

  Trounce snorted. “Pah! Too much of a coincidence! There's more to it, mark my words, lad!”

  Burton nodded thoughtfully. “I agree,” he murmured. “There's a deeper mystery here.”

  Doctor Quaint and Sister Raghavendra entered the chamber and began to light the oil lamps. Burton stood and wandered over to the young woman.

  “Hello, Sadhvi. Have you settled into your duties?”

  “Hello, Captain Burton. Yes. It's been a busy day. I'll go down to the kitchen in a minute to help Mr. Butler and Miss Mayson with the supper, then once that's cooked and eaten and tidied away, I'll retire to my cabin for a well-earned rest. Incidentally, I brought with me a volume of Mr. Swinburne's Poems and Ballads to read but I seem to have misplaced it. Might you ask him if he has a spare copy?”

  “You can borrow mine. I'll have Quips deliver it to you. I should warn you, though-it's a mite vivid!”

  “So I've heard, but I'm from India, Captain. I don't suffer the modesties, embarrassments, or fainting fits of your English ladies!”

  Burton smiled. “Then you are most fortunate!”

  On his way back to his friends, halfway across the small dance floor, the king's agent suddenly stopped and gazed up at the ceiling.

  “By James!” he whispered. “Could it be? It would certainly explain a lot!”

  When he sat down and picked up his drink, the others noticed that he wore a distracted expression.

  “What's on your mind, Captain?” Bhatti asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, I'm just-just thinking about-about-um-Christopher Rigby.”

  “Yikes!” Swinburne exclaimed. “He's going to be nothing but trouble!”

  “Who's Rigby?” Herbert Spencer asked.

  “Malodorous horse bucket!” Pox whistled.

  “The parakeet has it!” Swinburne declared. “Lieutenant Christopher Palmer Rigby is the consul at Zanzibar and a fat-headed ninny of the first order. Richard repeatedly knocked him off the top spot in language examinations back when they were stationed in India, and Rigby, sore loser that he is, has never forgotten it. The rotter's made a career of besmirching our friend's reputation. I'd like to punch the hound right on the nose!”

  “Thank you, Algy,” Burton said. He explained further: “Rigby and I were in the East India Company's Eighteenth Bombay Native Infantry at Scinde, and he formed an immediate and irrational hatred of me from the outset. He'll cause problems for us when we land in Africa, of that I'm certain.”

  “King's agent!” Honesty barked. “Authority!”

  “Possessing authority is one thing,” Burton replied, “but expecting a man like Rigby to respect it is quite another.”

  Over the next hour, he barely said another word, and when they attended the captain's table for supper, the explorer appeared so preoccupied that his bearing came perilously close to impoliteness. Afterward, he muttered a few words about writing up his journals and retired to his cabin.

  He lit one lamp and turned it down low, then got undressed, washed, put on his pyjamas, and wrapped himself in his jubbah. He lit a cheroot and relaxed in an armchair, his eyes focused inward, his mind working on a Sufi meditation exercise.

  He finished the cigar.

  A couple of hours passed.

  He didn't move.

  Then: There!

  He'd heard a faint noise, a tiny rasping sound.

  He waited.

  Again, an almost imperceptible scrape.

  He allowed a few minutes to tick by.

  “You should have asked before borrowing Sister Raghavendra's copy of Poems and Ballads.”

  Silence.

  He spoke again. “You made a scapegoat of Vincent Sneed. I have no fondness for the fellow, but why? What was the point?”

  Thirty seconds or so passed.

  A small, whispery voice said, “Distraction, Captain Burton.”

  “There you are! Hello, lad! I take it Sneed and Willy Cornish smuggled you onto the ship in the replacement section of pipe?”

  “Yes. I had ordered the previous two funnel scrubbers to purposely damage a section in order to facilitate my presence here.”

  “So the Beetle, the chief of the League of Chimney Sweeps, finds himself en route to Africa. A bizarre circumstance indeed, and I imagine you must have a very good reason for leaving your chimney. Distraction, you say? Who are you trying to distract, and from what?”

  Burton stood and moved to the middle of the room. He looked up at the grille in the thick ventilation pipe. Vaguely, he could discern something moving behind it.

  “Don't turn the lamps up,” came the whisper.

  “I don't intend to. I know how you abhor light.”

  “One of my boys was killed.”

  “Who?”

  “Bingo Stokes. He was ten years old, and one of the few not an orphan. But his father mistreated him terribl
y, and Bingo often sought refuge in a chimney.”

  “Ah. Now I understand. He cleaned the chimney of a house in Ilford, then went back there to steal food and spend a night in the flue.”

  “That is correct, Captain. And while he was there, he overheard four men plotting. Three were Prussians, but, fortunately, they spoke in English on account of the fourth man. That individual was instructed to bring down this ship, if he couldn't kill you first. Unfortunately, Bingo's presence was detected, and though he got away, he was shot. By the time he reached me, it was too late to save him. He bled to death, but not before repeating to me everything he'd heard.”

  “So there is still a saboteur at loose?”

  “Yes, but I do not know who it is. I arranged to be smuggled aboard and I instructed Vincent Sneed to steal the bearing cradle.”

  “You're conversant with the engineering of the Orpheus?”

  “I had already read a great deal of material pertaining to her construction.”

  Burton thought for a moment, then said, “So you alerted us to the fact that a saboteur was aboard by arranging a fairly harmless act of sabotage yourself?”

  “Exactly, and in doing so, I made it difficult, if not impossible, for the Prussian agent to act, for your people were all on the lookout for suspicious behaviour. The first leg of your voyage was thus protected. I then placed the cradle in your room, knowing that Sneed would be recognised and accused.”

  “Why do that?”

  “Because now Sneed's been dealt with, your enemy will think that you consider yourselves safe. He'll be of the opinion that he can act with impunity when, in truth, you'll be watching out for him.”

  Burton pondered this, then said, “You've done me a service, and I thank you, but I don't understand. Why such an extravagant scheme when you could've got a message to me before the Orpheus left Battersea?”

  “If I had, what would you have done?”

  “I'd have dismissed the entire crew, hired a new one, and had every inch of the ship thoroughly checked.”

  “And how long would that have taken?”

  “Perhaps four days. Maybe five or six.”

  “Bingo Stokes learned something else. The man who owned the house, Steinruck, was taking care of some business in Yorkshire-”

  “His real name is Zeppelin and he went there to arrange my poisoning.”

  “I see. I'm glad he failed. Upon completing this business, he was going to fly to Prussia to join an expedition to Central Africa led by Lieutenant John Speke. I realised, therefore, that warning you would result in a delay you can ill afford, for you are in a race.”

  “Bismillah!” Burton cursed. “I thought a rival expedition might be a possibility! So Speke and Zeppelin are already on their way?”

  “They are, and that is why I chose the removal of the bearing cradle as my means of false sabotage, for I knew that it would result in a dangerous turn of speed. Maybe it will get you ahead in the game.”

  Burton smacked a fist into his palm and paced up and down. “Damnation!” he muttered.

  “You have no time for this stopover in Cairo,” the Beetle urged. “You must get this ship back into the air at once. The saboteur will make a move but he will undoubtedly lack the appropriate caution. Catch him, then catch up with your opponents.”

  Burton hurried across the room and snatched up his clothes. “What of you?” he asked as he started to dress.

  “I will watch and listen and try to identify the agent. After you are delivered to Zanzibar, I'll remain with the ship while it returns to London. Willy Cornish-who, incidentally, has been following my orders-will facilitate my return to Limehouse.”

  “And Sneed?”

  “He has a history of bullying my lads. This was his chance to redeem himself. He performed his part well and will be compensated for the inconvenience he is currently suffering.”

  Burton quickly buttoned up his clothes and tied his bootlaces. He stepped to the door and grasped its handle. “I have to tell my people what you've done, then get us moving,” he said. “Thank you, lad. I'm in your debt.”

  First Officer William Henson had just dropped off to sleep when a hammering at his cabin door awoke him. Swearing under his breath, he pulled on a gown, yanked open the door, and was confronted by the captain.

  “Sleep is cancelled, Mr. Henson. I need all hands on deck.”

  “Right away, sir. Is there a problem?”

  “A change of schedule. No layover in Cairo. We're departing immediately. Mr. Gooch and the riggers will be recalibrating the four stern engines while we're in mid-flight. That means four external doors are going to be wide open in the sides of the engineering bay. We'll keep a low altitude, of course, but nevertheless I feel uneasy flying so exposed. I'd like you to oversee things down there until we're properly sealed up again.”

  “Certainly, sir, though I'm sure Mr. Gooch-”

  “Will have everything under control. I don't doubt it, Henson, but since we have only three riggers and there are four engines that require attention, Mr. Gooch will be out on one of the flight pylons.”

  “Ah. I see. I'll get down there at once.”

  “You can shave and tidy yourself up first. There are some internal repairs and adjustments to be made before Gooch and his team go outside. Get down there within the hour, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Henson's door was the first of a number to be knocked upon over the course of the next few minutes, and in very short measure the majority of the Orpheus's aeronauts found themselves unexpectedly back on duty.

  It was a few minutes past midnight.

  The rotorship's flight crew gathered on the bridge. Sir Richard Francis Burton was there, watching each of them carefully. They looked bleary-eyed and dishevelled. Captain Lawless did not. His uniform was buttoned, his eyes were bright, and he was all efficiency.

  “What's going on, sir?” Arthur Bingham, the meteorologist, asked.

  “I'll have your report, Mr. Bingham, not your questions,” Lawless snapped.

  “Yes, sir. A wind has picked up. Rather strong. Easterly, currently at a steady twenty knots. No cloud.”

  “You heard that, Mr. Playfair?”

  “Yes, sir,” the navigator responded. “Taken into account. Course plotted to Aden.”

  “Good man. Mr. Pryce, call down to Mr. Gooch and have him start the engines.”

  “Aye, sir.” Wordsworth Pryce, the second officer, moved to the speaking tubes. Moments later, a vibration ran through the rotorship.

  “Engage the wings, Mr. Wenham.”

  “Engaging. Opening. Rotating…and…up to speed.”

  “Take us to two thousand feet.”

  On an expanding cone of steam, the Orpheus rose into the night sky and began to power into the southeast, leaving the ill-lit city of Cairo behind her. Above, the Milky Way arced across the heavens, but below, the narrow Red Sea and the lands to either side of it were wreathed in darkness, so it seemed that the ship was sailing through an empty void.

  With her stern engines still operating abnormally, the huge vessel rattled and shook as she ate up the miles, speeding at almost 150 knots toward Aden, on the tip of the Arabian Peninsula.

  In the engine room, the bearing cradle had been refitted, but it took Daniel Gooch and his fellow engineers almost four hours to reset the synchronisation system, which they achieved by shutting down the four rear engines one at a time while adjusting the various components to which the cradle was connected.

  Now all that remained was to recalibrate each of those stern-most engines.

  Gooch and the riggers Gordon Champion, Alexander Priestley, and Winford Doe, positioned themselves at the four hull doors and buckled themselves into harnesses. They clipped safety straps to brackets above the portals.

  First Officer Henson pulled a speaking tube from the wall.

  On the bridge, his call was answered by Oscar Wilde, who said, “Captain Lawless, Mr. Henson is asking permission to open the external doors.�
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  Lawless was standing by the window with Sir Richard Francis Burton. They were watching al-fajr al-kaadhib, the zodiacal light, which was rising column-like in the western sky. He said, “Tell him permission is granted, Master Wilde.”

  “Aye, sir,” the boy replied. He relayed the message down to the engine room.

  Lawless stepped over to the helmsman and stood beside him, quietly ordering, “Steady as she goes, please, Mr. Wenham.”

  “Aye-aye, sir, but-” Wenham hesitated.

  “What is it?”

  “I-um-I think-” The helmsman turned to Cedric Playfair, the navigator. “Shouldn't we still be over the Red Sea?”

  “Yes,” Playfair answered, glancing at his instruments.

  “Then why is there desert below us?”

  Lawless and Playfair both looked up and saw what Wenham had spotted-that the vaguest glimmers of light were skimming not over water, but sand dunes.

  “Impossible!” Playfair gasped.

  Burton joined them and watched as the navigator checked over his console.

  “The compass says we're travelling south-southeast,” Playfair muttered. “But if that were true, we'd be where we should be.” He tapped the instrument, then bent, opened a panel in the console, reached in, and felt about, muttering: “Maybe something is interfering with-hello! What's this?” He pulled out a small block of metal, and as he did so, the compass needle swung from SSE to SE.

  “A magnet!” Burton observed.

  “How the devil-?” Playfair exclaimed.

  Lawless clenched his teeth and bunched his fists.

  “But it shouldn't make any difference!” Francis Wenham objected. “That compass is just for reference. It isn't used to set the course.”

  “He's right, sir,” Playfair put in. “Mr. Wenham follows the instrumentation on his own console. It indicates the degrees to port or starboard he should steer the ship to maintain the course I set. Taking into account the compensation I calculated, if he's followed his indicators exactly, we should be slap bang over the Red Sea.”

  “And I have done,” Wenham noted.

  “Compensation?” Burton asked.