by Mark Hodder
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
14.
Inside the house, Mrs. Angell, all petticoats and pinafore, tore into the study and shrieked: “The king's here! The king's here!” She jabbed her finger at the window. “Lord Almighty! His Majesty King Albert himself has come to the house!”
Algernon Swinburne, who'd been sitting in quiet conversation with Herbert Spencer and Detective Inspector Trounce, looked up wearily. There were dark circles under his eyes.
“That's very unlikely, Mrs. A,” he said.
“It's impossible,” Trounce put in. “My dear woman, the king, God bless him, is under siege in Buckingham Palace. He can't get out and no one can get in, and it'll stay that way until our riffraff revolutionaries calm down and stop demanding that we become a damned republic! Pardon my language.”
Spencer grunted and murmured: “The republican form of government is the highest blinkin’ form of government, but, because of this, it requires the highest type of human nature-a type nowhere at present existin’ in London, that's for bloomin’ certain!”
“Stop your blessed chinwagging and look out of the window!” the housekeeper cried.
Trounce raised his eyebrows.
Swinburne sighed, stood, and crossed the room. He stepped past Admiral Lord Nelson, who was standing in his customary position, and peered out of the window. The doorbell jangled.
Mrs. Angell lifted her pinafore and slapped it over her mouth to stifle a squeal.
“My hat!” the poet exclaimed, staring out at the mighty armoured carriage.
“What shall I do? What shall I do?” the old woman panicked.
“Bed-wetter,” Pox the parakeet opined, with a cheery whistle.
“Calm yourself, Mother. Stay here. I'll go,” Swinburne answered. He left the room.
Trounce and Spencer stood and brushed down their clothing. Mrs. Angell bustled anxiously around the room, straightening pictures, adjusting ornaments and curios, dusting and fussing at top speed.
“Nelson!” she barked. “Put these gentlemen's glasses away in the bureau and wipe the tabletop, then come here so I can give you a quick polish.”
The clockwork man saluted and moved to obey.
“I'm sure that ain't necess-” Spencer began.
“Quiet!” Trounce whispered. “Never interrupt her when there's housework involved! You'll get your head bitten off!”
Multiple footsteps sounded on the stairs. Swinburne entered, followed by Damien Burke and Gregory Hare, who were both back in their usual outlandish and outdated clothes. Palmerston's men each had their left arm in a sling.
They stood aside.
A tall man stepped into the room between them. He was dr
essed in a dark blue velvet suit with a long black cape draped over his shoulders. A black veil hung from the brim of his top hat, concealing his face completely.
“Your Highness,” Mrs. Angell said, lowering herself into a deep curtsy.
“Hardly that, madam,” the visitor replied, pulling off his hat and veil. “I am Henry John Temple, the Third Viscount Palmerston.”
“Oh! It's only the prime minister!” the housekeeper exclaimed. She clutched at a chair and hauled herself back upright.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Palmerston muttered ruefully.
“No!” Mrs. Angell gulped. “I mean-that is to say-ooh er!” She turned a deep shade of red.
“Gentlemen, good lady,” Swinburne announced, “some of you have met, some of you haven't, so a quick who's who: this is Mrs. Iris Angell, Sir Richard's esteemed housekeeper; Detective Inspector William Trounce, one of Scotland Yard's finest; Mr. Herbert Spencer, our friendly neighbourhood philosopher; Lord Admiral Nelson, Richard's rather extraordinary valet; and Mr. Damien Burke and Mr. Gregory Hare, agents for the prime minister!”
A loud warble interrupted him: “Cross-eyed nitwits!”
“My apologies-and that is Pox, Sir Richard's newly acquired parakeet.”
Palmerston looked disdainfully at the colourful little bird, gazed in awe at the clockwork man, then turned to Swinburne and said: “You sent me a message. You said Captain Burton is out of action. Explain. Where is he?”
“Ah,” the poet answered. “You'd better come upstairs, Prime Minister. If the rest of you wouldn't mind waiting here, I'm sure Mrs. Angell will see to it that you're supplied with whatever refreshments take your fancy.”
“Of course, sir,” the housekeeper simpered, curtseying again in the prime minister's direction. She winced and held her hip.
Swinburne glanced at her and, despite his fatigue, managed a cheeky wink.
He ushered Lord Palmerston from the room and up two flights of stairs to the library. As they approached the door, Palmerston asked: “Is that music I hear?”
“Yes,” Swinburne said, laying his fingers on the door handle. “We rescued Richard two days ago. He was practically catatonic and repeated just one thing, over and over: Al-Masloub.”
“Which means?”
“We didn't know until we got him home. Mrs. Angell recognised it straightaway as the name of a musician Richard has over from time to time. We summoned the man, who arrived, spent a few minutes looking at our patient, went away again, and returned with two more musicians in tow. Since then, and without a moment's cease, this-”
He pushed open the door.
The library was filled with the swirling melodies and rhythms of an Arabian flute and drums. All the furniture had been shoved against the book-lined walls, and, in the middle of the floor, Sir Richard Francis Burton, dressed in a belted white robe and white pantaloons, his feet bare, and a tall fez upon his head, was spinning deliriously on the spot.
His arms were held out, the forearms poised vertically, the palm of his right hand directed at the ceiling, the palm of his left at the floor. His head was thrown back and his mouth and eyes were shut, as if in peaceful contemplation. There were droplets of sweat on his face-and he whirled and whirled!
Around and around, gyrating at considerable speed, in time with the drumbeat, he appeared entirely oblivious to their presence.
“Do you mean to tell me that His Majesty's agent has been spinning in circles for two days?” Palmerston huffed.
“Yes, Prime Minister, he has. It's the dance of the Dervish, of the Sufi mystic. I believe he's attempting to repair the damage our enemies did to him.”
Palmerston, his face as expressionless as ever, watched Burton for a few moments.
“Well,” he muttered. “He'd better pull himself together soon. He might be the only person in the country who can tell me exactly why our normally industrious labouring classes have decided to go the way of the damned French. In the meantime-”
Footsteps sounded as Burke and Hare pounded up the stairs.
“Prime Minister, please excuse the interruption,” Burke said, speaking rapidly and with his voice raised above the music. He turned to the poet: “Mr. Swinburne, when you recovered Sir Richard, did he have an odd-looking pistol in his possession?”
“The green thing?” the poet asked. “Yes, I found it in his jacket pocket. Is it a pistol? It doesn't look like one!”
“Where is it now?”
“In the top drawer of his main desk, by the windows.”
Burke turned to Hare. “If you would, Mr. Hare?”
With a nod, his colleague turned and headed back to the study.
“What's happening?” Palmerston snapped.
“A minute, if you please, sir,” Burke responded briskly. He leaned across and pulled the library door shut, muffling the melodic noise. He then indicated another door, just along the hall, and addressed Swinburne again: “What's in there?”
“It's Richard's storeroom.”
With a swift nod, Burke pushed past them, opened the door, and looked inside. He saw a room piled high with wooden boxes.
“Excellent. In you go, please, Prime Minister.”
“What the devil-!” Palmerston began.
Gregory Hare reappeared, with Burton's spine-shooter in his hand. He passed it to his colleague.
“Sir!” Burke's voice was filled with urgency. “If you recall, I advised you in the strongest possible terms that coming here was a grievous miscalculation. Sir Richard and his colleagues have made themselves known to the enemy forces. They are targets. You have knowingly placed yourself in the line of fire for no good reason except to satisfy your curiosity-”
“How dare you speak to me like th-”
Burke continued, raising his voice and speaking over the prime minister's objection. “What I feared most is now occurring. The street outside has just filled with wraiths. They caused your guards to shoot your outriders dead then turn their rifles upon themselves. We can only assume that this house is about to be attacked, isn't that so, Mr. Hare?”
“Quite right, Mr. Burke,” Gregory Hare answered.
“We must barricade ourselves inside,” Burke continued. “If it becomes necessary, Mr. Hare and I will act as your last line of defence.”
“I-” Palmerston said, but a thick arm was suddenly wrapped around his waist and Hare hoisted him off his feet, carried him past Burke and Swinburne, and plonked him into the storeroom.
“Unhand me, sir!” came his receding protest.
Burke turned to the poet: “I'm sorry, Mr. Swinburne, but Lord Palmerston's safety is my and Mr. Hare's primary duty. I have no choice but to leave you and your companions to defend this house as best you can. Besides which, we are somewhat hampered by our injuries. If our attackers make it past you, hopefully you will have weakened them enough for us to be able to deal with them.”
“You mean to make of us a forlorn hope?” Swinburne asked. “Ruthless bugger, aren't you?”
“You object?”
Swinburne grinned. “Not at all! This is just my cup of tea! Go! Barricade yourselves in. I'll rally the troops.”
“Thank you, sir. Um-” Burke looked at the cactus pistol in his hand “-I should keep hold of this but Mr. Hare and I are armed with revolvers and, under the circumstances-”
He passed the strange weapon to the poet, quickly explained its use, then turned away, entered the storeroom, and closed the door.
Swinburne let loose a breath and whispered: “Tally-ho!” He descended the stairs. As he reached the landing, he saw Mrs. Angell in the hallway below, carrying a coffee pot and cups on a tray.
There was a knock at the front door.
The housekeeper immediately put the tray down on the hall table and reached for the door handle.
“Don't!” Swinburne yelled.
It was too late. Even as she turned to look up at him, Mrs. Angell's fingers had twisted the doorknob.
The portal swung inward, pushed by a big bloate
d hand.
The old woman staggered backward and screamed.
A bulging mass of clothing blocked the threshold. Swinburne recognised it at once: the Tichborne Claimant!
The hideous head came ducking under the lintel and, as the hulking mass of blubbery flesh pushed through after it, Mrs. Angell dropped in a dead faint.
Swinburne raised the cactus pistol and pressed the trigger nodule. He missed. Spines thudded into the doorframe. The Claimant raised his repulsive face, looked at the poet, and smiled sweetly.
“You must be Algy.”
His voice was female, with a Russian accent.
“Forgive me for not visiting you in person, kotyonok, but I am a little stretched at the moment.” The Claimant glanced down at his corpulent belly. He looked back up at the poet and chuckled. “He he he! Horribly stretched! But as a matter of fact, I was referring to the uprising. It goes well, does it not? Your capital burns! Ha ha! How your poor King Albert must tremble!”
“Who the hell are you?” Swinburne snarled.
The door beside him opened and Detective Inspector Trounce stepped out.
“What's going- Bloody hell!”
“Ah, is that William Trounce? How gratifying. I do hope you have Herbert Spencer with you, too. It would be so convenient if my emissary can kill you all at once before he retrieves Sir Richard. Really, it was very rude of you to take him from me before I'd finished ruining that extraordinary mind of his. I would have come for him sooner but I have so much to do. I am quite dreadfully busy. Ah well, let us proceed. Time for you to die! As we say in Russia: Bare derutsya-u kholopov chuby treschat! Farewell!”
The Claimant's eyes suddenly dulled. He emitted a loud bellow, in his own voice, and started up the stairs. His girth was such that the banister and its balusters cracked, splintered, and fell away from the staircase as he heaved himself up.
Trounce went to draw his police revolver. It snagged in his pocket.
“Confound it!” he cursed.