by Mark Hodder
The colonel, twisting the points of his extravagant muttonchops, paced up and down nervously.
“Mr. Hawkins,” he said, “tell me more about this Kenealy fellow.”
“Who's Kenealy?” Burton asked.
“Doctor Edward Vaughan Hyde Kenealy,” said Hawkins. “He's the Claimant's lawyer. He also considers himself a poet, literary critic, prophet, and would-be politician. He's a through-and-through Rake-a member of the inner circle thought to have gathered around the new leader, whoever that may be.”
“Well now!” Burton exclaimed. “That's very interesting indeed!”
Laurence Oliphant and Henry “The Mad Marquess” Beresford had formerly led the Rakes, but both had been killed by Burton last year, and the faction had been in disarray for some months.
“Not John Speke, surely!” Burton muttered to himself. Recent events would make a lot more sense if Speke was guiding the Rakes and using them to get at the black diamonds, but, somehow, Burton just couldn't see it. His former partner didn't possess leadership qualities, and furthermore, he was extremely conservative and repressed in character-not at all representative of the Rake philosophy.
Burton wondered whether he'd be able to prise some information out of the Claimant's lawyer.
“Interesting is not a word I'd use to describe Edward Kenealy, Sir Richard,” Henry Hawkins was saying. “Barking mad would be my choice. He's as nutty as a fruitcake, and a confounded brute, too. Ten years ago, he served a month in prison on a charge of aggravated assault against his six-year-old illegitimate son. The boy had been beaten half to death and almost strangled. Kenealy has since been accused-but not charged-with a number of assaults against prostitutes. He's a very active follower of the Marquis de Sade and adheres to the belief that inflicting pain weakens social constraints and liberates the spirit.”
Detective Inspector Trounce eyed Algernon Swinburne, who frowned back and muttered: “Some are givers, some are takers, Inspector.”
Hawkins continued: “He also subscribes to a rather incoherent theology which claims that a spiritual force is beginning to change the world-that we currently exist on the borderline between two great epochs, and the transformation from one to the other will cause a social apocalypse, overthrowing the world's ruling elite and passing power, instead, into the hands of the working classes.”
Burton shifted uneasily, remembering Countess Sabina's prophecy and his subsequent strange dream.
Hawkins went on: “He's published a number of long-winded and nonsensical texts to promote this creed but, if you ask me, the only useful information one can draw from them is the fact that their author is an egomaniac, fanatic, and fantasist. All in all, gentlemen, a very dangerous and unpredictable fellow to have as our opponent.”
“And one who's currently travelling down the carriageway, by the looks of it, what!” Jankyn noted from where he stood by the window. “There's a growler approaching.”
Lushington blew out a breath and rubbed his hands on the sides of his trousers. “Well, Mr. Hawkins-ahem!-let's go and cast our eyes over, that is to say, have a look at, the man who says he's Roger Tichborne. Gentlemen, if you'd be good enough to wait here, I'll introduce the Claimant and his lunatic lawyer presently.”
The two men left the room.
Swinburne crossed to the window just in time to see the horse-drawn carriage pass out of sight as it approached the portico.
“What do you think?” he asked Jankyn quietly. “Swindler or prodigal?”
“I'll reserve my judgement until I see him and he makes his case, what!”
Burton, who was standing beside one of the large bookcases with Detective Inspector Trounce, caught his assistant's eye.
With a nod to Jankyn, the poet left the window and walked over to the explorer, who pointed to a leather-bound volume. Swinburne read the spine: De Mythen van Verloren Halfedelstenen by Matthijs Schuyler.
“What of it?” he asked.
“This is the book that tells the myths of the three Eyes of Naga.”
“Humph!” the poet muttered. “Circumstantial evidence, I'll grant, but the ties between the Tichbornes and the black diamonds appear to be tightening!”
“They do!” Burton agreed.
Bogle entered carrying a decanter and some glasses. He put them on a sideboard and started to polish the glasses with a cloth, preparing to offer the men refreshment.
The door opened.
Colonel Lushington stepped in and stood to one side. His eyes were glazed and his jaw hung slackly.
Henry Hawkins followed. He wore an expression of shock, and was holding a hand to his head, as if experiencing pain.
“Gentlemen,” the colonel croaked. “May I present to you Doctor Edward Kenealy and-and-and the-the Claimant to the-to the Tichborne estate!”
A man entered behind him.
Dr. Kenealy possessed the same build as William Trounce; he was short, thickset, and burly. However, where the Scotland Yard man was mostly brawn, the lawyer was soft and running to fat.
His head was extraordinary. An enormous bush of dark hair and a very generous beard framed his broad face. His upper lip was clean-shaven, his mouth was wide, and he wore small thick-lensed spectacles behind which tiny bloodshot eyes glittered. The overall effect was that of a wild man of the woods peeking out from dense undergrowth.
He jerked an abrupt nod of greeting to each of them in turn, then said, in an aggressive tone: “Good day, sirs. I present-”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“-Sir Roger Tichborne!”
A shadow darkened the doorway behind him. Kenealy moved aside.
A great mass of coarse cloth and swollen flesh filled the portal from side to side, top to bottom, and slowly squeezed through, before straightening and expanding to its full height and breadth, which was simply enormous.
The Tichborne Claimant was around six and a half feet tall, prodigiously fat, and absolutely hideous.
A towering, blubbery mass, he stood on short legs as thick as tree trunks, which were encased in rough brown canvas trousers. His colossal belly pushed over the top of them, straining his waistcoat to such an extent that the material around the buttons had ripped and frayed.
His right arm was long and corpulent, stretching the stitching of his black jacket, and it ended in a bloated, plump-fingered and hairy hand. The left arm, by contrast, seemed withered below the elbow. It was shorter, and the hand was that of a more refined man, smooth-skinned and with long, slender fingers.
The enormous round head that squatted necklessly on the wide shoulders was, thought Burton, like something straight out of a nightmare. The face, which certainly resembled that of Roger Tichborne, if the portrait in the dining room was anything to go by, appeared to have been roughly stitched onto the front of the skull by means of a thick cartilaginous thread. Its edges were pulled tautly over the flesh beneath, causing the features to distort somewhat, slitting the eyes, flaring the nostrils, and pulling the lips horribly tight over big, greenish, tombstone teeth.
From behind this grotesque mask, dark, blank, cretinous eyes slowly surveyed the room.
The head was hairless, the scalp a nasty spotted and blemished yellow, and around the skull, encircling it entirely like a crown, were seven irregular lumps, each cut through by a line of stitches.
There came a sudden crash as Bogle dropped a glass.
The butler clutched at his temples, grimaced, then, his eyes filling with tears, he said: “My, sir! But how much stouter you are!”
The creature grunted and attempted a smile, pulling its lips back over its decayed teeth and bleeding gums. A line of pinkish drool oozed from its bottom lip.
“Yaaas,” it drawled in a slow, rumbling voice. “I-not-the boy-I was when I leave Tichborne!”
The statement was made hesitatingly, and dully, as if it came from someone mentally impaired.
“Then you recognise my client?” Kenealy demanded of Bogle.
“Oh, yes, sir! That's my master!
That's Sir Roger Tichborne!”
“By thunder! What nonsense!” Hawkins objected. “That-that person -may possess a passing likeness in the face but he is blatantly not-not-”
He stopped suddenly and gasped, staggering backward.
“My head!” he groaned.
Colonel Lushington emitted a strangled laugh and dropped to his knees. Doctor Jankyn hurried forward and took the colonel by the shoulders.
“Are you unwell?” he asked.
“Yes. No. No. I think-I think I have a-I'm dizzy. It's just a migraine.”
“Steady!” the doctor said, pulling the military man to his feet. “Why, you can barely stand!”
Lushington straightened, swayed, pushed the physician away, and cleared his throat.
“My-my apologies, gentlemen. I feel-a bit-a bit… If Sir Roger will permit it, I shall-retire to my room to-to lie down for an hour or so.”
“Good idea!” Kenealy said.
“You go,” the Claimant grunted, lumbering into the centre of the room. “You go-lie down now. Feel better. Yes.”
To the other men's amazement, Colonel Lushington, who'd gone from calling the creature “the Claimant” to “Sir Roger” in less than a minute, stumbled from the room.
“What the deuce-?” Trounce muttered.
Doctor Jankyn announced: “He'll be all right after he rests awhile, what!” He turned to the Claimant and extended his hand. “Welcome home, Sir Roger! Welcome home! What a marvellous day this is! I never thought to see you again!”
The Claimant's meaty right hand enveloped the doctor's and shook it.
“So much for reserving judgement!” Swinburne whispered to Burton. “Although he might be right. Maybe this isn't an imposter at all!”
Burton gazed at his assistant in astonishment.
Hawkins shook his head, as if to clear it. He turned to Jankyn.
“You don't mean to suggest that you also recognise this-this-?”
“Why, of course I do!” Jankyn cried. “This is young Sir Roger!”
“It is-good to see you-Mr-Mr-?” the creature rumbled.
“Doctor Jankyn!” the physician supplied.
“Yes,” came the reply. “I remember you.”
Hawkins threw up his hands in exasperation and looked across at Burton, who shrugged noncommittally.
“And who might you gentlemen be, may I ask?” Kenealy enquired, in his brusque, belligerent manner.
“I am Henry Hawkins, acting on behalf of the relatives,” the lawyer snapped, bristling.
“Ah ha! Then advise them to not oppose my client, sir! He has come to take possession of what's rightfully his and I mean to see that he gets it!”
“I think it best we save discussions of that nature for the courtroom, sir,” Hawkins responded coldly. “For now, I'll restrict myself to that which courtesy demands and introduce Sir Richard Francis Burton, Mr. Algernon Swinburne, and Detective Inspector William Trounce of Scotland Yard.”
“And, pray, why are they here?”
Trounce stepped forward and, in his most officious tone, said, “I am here, sir, to investigate the murder of Sir Alfred Tichborne, and I advise you not to interfere with my duties.”
“I have no intention of interfering. Murder, is it? When did this occur? And how?”
Trounce shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Last night. He fell from a window under mysterious circumstances.”
“My-brother?” the Claimant uttered.
“That is correct, Sir Roger,” said Kenealy, turning to the monstrous figure. “May I be the first to offer my condolences?”
“Yes,” the Claimant grunted, meaninglessly.
Kenealy looked back at Trounce. “Why murder? Why not an accident or suicide?”
“The matter is under investigation. I'll not be drawn on it until I have gathered and examined the evidence.”
“Very well. And you, Sir Richard-is there a reason for your presence?”
Burton glowered at the lawyer and said, slowly and clearly, “I don't think I like your tone, sir.”
“Then I apologise,” Kenealy said, sounding not one whit apologetic. “I remind you, however, that I'm acting on behalf of Sir Roger Tichborne, in whose house you currently stand.”
Henry Hawkins interrupted: “That remains to be seen, Kenealy. And for your information, Sir Richard and Mr. Swinburne are here as guests of Colonel Lushington and at the behest of the Doughty and Arundell families, who have a stake in this property and whose identities are beyond question.”
“Do you mean to imply that my client's identity is in question?” Kenealy growled.
“I absolutely do,” Hawkins answered. “And I intend to have him prosecuted. It is blatantly obvious that this individual is an imposter!”
Doctor Jankyn stepped forward, shaking his head. “No, Mr. Hawkins,” he said. “You're wrong. This is Sir Roger. I couldn't mistake him. I knew him for the first two decades of his life.”
Hawkins rounded on the physician. “I don't know what you're playing at, sir, but if I find that you're a willing participant in this conspiracy, I'll see you behind bars!”
“The doctor and the butler have both acknowledged my client's identity,” Kenealy snapped, “as has Colonel Lushington-”
“I dispute that!” said Hawkins. “The colonel made a slip of the tongue while feeling unwell, that's all.”
“Be that as it may, two individuals who were in the service of the family before Sir Roger sailed for South America have confirmed that this man is who he says he is. Need I remind you that he was also recognised by his own mother?”
“Motherrrrr-” the Claimant moaned, gazing blankly at Hawkins.
“Those present who oppose my client never even knew Sir Roger,” Kenealy continued. “It doesn't take a court of law to see where the power lies, does it?”
“By God! What kind of lawyer are you?” Hawkins cried.
“Mr. Hawkins,” Kenealy snarled, “there is a certain degree of decorum demanded by the bar which, once we oppose each other before a judge, will prevent me from saying that which I now wish to say: to wit, shut your damned mouth, sir! You are in no position to criticise and in hardly any state to oppose. I will, against my better judgement, allow you and Colonel Lushington to remain in this house as my client's guests until such a time as the law deems your presence here indefensible. I will then throw you out, and if I have to put my boot to the seat of your pants, then I most certainly shall do so. In the meantime, Detective Inspector Trounce is welcome to stay here until his investigation is done. As for you two-” he turned to Burton and Swinburne “-you can depart forthwith. Your presence is neither required nor desired.”
“Kenealy!” Hawkins yelled. “How dare you! This is an absolute outrage!”
“I am the prosecuting lawyer, Hawkins!” Kenealy roared, his face turning purple and the veins pulsing on his forehead. “I'm well aware that you intend to countersue, but you haven't filed the case yet, and until you do, there's not a damned thing you can do to oppose my client's wishes-and his wishes, at this moment, are that Burton and Swinburne get the hell off his estate!”
Hawkins opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Burton: “It's quite all right, Mr. Hawkins. We'll leave. We don't want to contribute to what is obviously already a tense situation.”
“Yaaas,” the Claimant drawled. “Go now.”
Without another word, Burton took Swinburne by the arm and steered him out of the room.
“Sir Richard!” Hawkins called as the two men crossed the threshold. Burton looked back, met the lawyer's eyes, and gave a slight shake of his head.
As they climbed the stairs to their rooms, Swinburne said: “Well, that's that. I'd say our job here is done.”
“You really think we just met the real Sir Roger?” Burton asked.
“Don't you?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Really? What on earth is there to be suspicious about?”
“Are you serious, Algy?�
��
“Yes.”
“You don't think it odd that Sir Roger was five foot eight at most, and very slim, whereas the Claimant is pushing seven foot tall and is probably the most obese individual I've ever set eyes on?”
“I suppose life in Australia can change a man, Richard. Anyway, there's no reason for us to stay, is there? Shall we return to London?”
“In due course.”
Thirty minutes later, as Burton was packing his portmanteau, Trounce knocked at his bedroom door, entered, and cried: “What the devil are you playing at? Why are you scarpering?”
“We're not. Algy and I are going to get rooms at the Dick Whittington Inn in Alresford,” the king's agent replied. “And you? How long do you expect to stay?”
Trounce blew out a breath. “Phew! What can I do? How does a man go about investigating ghosts? No, Captain, I'll return to the Yard this evening and we'll see what Commissioner Mayne has to say about the whole sorry business.”
“In that case, would you do me a favour and get a message to Herbert Spencer? I need him to let us back into the house and into the pantry. One way or another, we have to find our way through that secret door. I'm convinced the diamond is beyond it and I want to get to it before the ghost does. Tell him to meet Algy and me by the lake at three in the morning.”
Trounce shook Burton's hand. “Very well. Good luck, Captain.”
“The bloomin’ door is open, Boss!” Herbert Spencer whispered. “But it weren't me what opened it!”
He glanced around nervously. The mist was rolling down the slope again, creeping toward the lake, and he wasn't happy.
The giant swans, as yet unnoticed by Kenealy and his client, were sleeping on the mirror-smooth water, their heads resting on their backs, beaks tucked under their wings.
Spencer, Burton, and Swinburne were crouched under a crooked willow.
“Open?” Burton hissed.
“Yus. I checked it afore comin’ out, an’ blow me down with a feather if the back wall weren't sunk right into the floor!”
“And what was beyond it?”
“A tunnel.”
“Take us there, Herbert. We must hurry!”
Keeping their heads low, the three men ran up the slope to the back of Tichborne House. Despite the hour, lights were burning on the ground floor. They skirted the patio and followed Spencer around the corner to the left side of the building, where the door to a coal cellar stood open.