The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

by Mark Hodder

  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.”

  “The main thing is to make history, not to write it.”

  —OTTO VON BISMARCK

  “Transform the world with Beauty!”

  So declared William Morris, the leading light of the Arts and Crafts Movement; a man at the heart of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Ministry of Arts and Culture. Without him, the machines produced by the Department of Guided Science would have been nothing but fume-breathing metal monstrosities.

  “Form follows function!” the DOGS decreed.

  “But form must not offend!” Morris had insisted.

  So it was that the Empire’s tools and various forms of transport were embellished with functionally irrelevant ornamentation; every curve and angle possessed decorative flair; every surface was engraved with patterns and cursive accents; every edge bore a pleasing trim.

  Nowhere was this more apparent than in rotorchairs. From a distance, these flying vehicles resembled little more than a plush armchair affixed to a brass sled. A rigid umbrella-like hood curved over the seat; a small and complex engine was positioned at the rear; twin funnels projected backward; and six wedge-shaped wings rotated atop a tall drive-shaft above the entirety. There was something vaguely ridiculous about the contraptions until one moved closer and saw how all the disparate elements had been beautifully moulded into a unified whole by artists and designers.<
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  Rotorchairs were elegant. They were exquisite.

  Sir Richard Francis Burton hated them.

  The damned things made him nervous. He had no idea how they managed to fly, couldn’t fathom how they produced so much steam from so little water, and held a deep suspicion that they transcended every principle of physics. Knowing their design had been communicated to Isambard Kingdom Brunel from the Afterlife did little to reassure him.

  He pushed the middle of the three control levers, following Detective Inspector Trounce’s machine as it arced downward through the blue sky, leaving a curving trail of white vapour behind it. Burton pressed his heels into his footplate to slow his descent. His stomach squirmed as he rapidly lost altitude.

  Below, the village of Old Ford rushed up toward him. It was a small and quaint little place, its houses and shops clumped together on one side of a shallow valley, with green fields facing it from the opposite side. Its High Street extended from a junction with a long country lane at the base of the hill and ran up to the top, where it bent to the right and went winding away to the next settlement. Trounce landed halfway along it. His machine hit the cobbles with a thump, a skid, and a shower of sparks. Burton brought his down more gingerly, clicked off the motor, waited for the wings to stop spinning, then clambered out and removed his goggles.

  “It’s like flying a bag of rocks,” he grumbled. “I feared greater diligence might come at any moment.”

  “Diligence?” Trounce asked.

  “From gravity, in the application of its own laws.”

  “Humph!”

  They dragged their rotorchairs to the side of the road. All along the street, windows and doors were opening as Old Ford’s tiny population came out to investigate the loud paradiddle that had rattled their cottages.

  Nearby, outside a small dwelling, a white-haired man was leaning on a broom, watching the new arrivals.

  Trounce hailed him. “Hallo, is that you, Old Carter? By Jove! You look just the same as you did nigh on twenty years ago!”

  The man stepped forward and shook Trounce’s hand. “By all that’s holy! It’s Constable Trounce, isn’t it?”

  “Detective Inspector nowadays.”

  “Is that so? Well, well. Good for you!” Old Carter looked the Scotland Yard man up and down. “Crikey, but haven’t you filled out!”

  Trounce neatened his moustache with a forefinger and looked at the man’s broom. “Still sweeping?”

  “Old habits die hard. I’m ending my working days as I began ’em, sir. I went from street-sweeper to rifleman in the King’s Royal Rifle Corps, then retired from the Army and became a lamp-lighter, and next year I’ll retire again to spend my twilight years keeping this here street spotless. So tell me, what brings you gentlemen to Old Ford?”

  Trounce gestured toward Burton. “This is Sir Richard Francis Burton.”

  Burton said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Carter,” and shook the man’s hand.

  “Not Mr. Carter. Old Carter. Everyone calls me Old Carter the Lamp-lighter. I suppose they—”

  He stopped and his eyes went wide.

  “Do you recognise Captain Burton?” Trounce asked. “His likeness is currently all over the newspapers.”

  Old Carter stuttered, “I—I—he—yes, but he looks like—”

  Trounce took him by the elbow. “Could we step into your cottage, do you think?”

  “Y-yes. Come. Come.”

  Pushing open the gate, Old Carter led them through his neatly trimmed and flowered front garden and into his one-room home. They sat on his sofa. He took a chair beside a table.

  “This is about The Assassination, then?”

  “It is,” Trounce replied. “Is Captain Burton the man you saw?”

  Old Carter looked searchingly at the explorer. “Spitting image. Except, perhaps, a few years younger.”

  Burton said, “Would you tell me about it—what you witnessed that day?”

  “I will, but it ain’t no different to what I told the constable—sorry, Detective Inspector—back at the time.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  Old Carter blinked, scratched his chin, and said, “It was about six o’clock. The junction ’tween Piccadily and Park Lane was my patch. I was there every day from five in the morning until eleven at night. Hard work. There were no steam machines; it was all horses. For certain, the city was less crowded but there were twice as many nags as what you see now, and all of ’em doing their business in the streets. You didn’t want to cross a road without a sweep to clear a path for you.” He gave a slight smile. “Lucrative is the word! Aye, I earned a pretty penny keeping the muck off the toffs’ boots! Anyway, come six o’clock, I’m leaning against the wall that separates the street from Green Park, when someone on the other side puts a rifle—half-wrapped in a coat—on top of it, and then a flat case, like what jewellers use. Now, I tell you, I already wanted to be a rifleman and I knew a thing or two about guns, and I swear I ain’t never seen a weapon like that one afore or since. When I heard the man start climbing the wall, I was all set to ask him about it, but then I heard screams and whistles from the park and I realised something was up, so I quickly stepped away. The bloke came over the wall with a bag slung over his shoulder, took down the gun and the case, and was just about to make off when I says hello to him.”

  “Was he furtive or in a panic?” Burton asked.

  “Not at all. More confused. Didn’t seem to know up from down. Said he was having a bad day. ‘Don’t worry,’ I tells him, ‘you’ll forget about it tomorrow.’ Then—”

  Old Carter stopped, frowned, pursed his lips, and continued, “So you know this Great Amnesia thing they talk about?”

  Burton nodded.

  “That’s when it hit me. Right there, in the middle of the bloomin’ road. Bang! I suddenly realised I could hardly remember a thing about what I’d been doing yesterday, or the day afore, or—not for the past three years, as it turned out.” He shook his head in bafflement. “Anyway, our fellow made off, and that’s the last I saw of him.” He looked at Trounce. “Same as I told you at the time.”

  “Yes,” Trounce confirmed. “The same.”

  “The rifle,” Burton said. “Why did it so catch your attention?”

  Old Carter looked at him searchingly and answered, “The barrel was, as I said, wrapped in a coat. Couldn’t see much of it. But I saw the mechanism and it was much more like the weapons we have now than what we had back in ’forty. But smoother, tighter, more—um—compact, and there was a sort of tube fitted over the top of it.”

  “Tube?”

  “Like, if you were taking aim, you’d have to look through it.”

  “Ah, I’ve seen something of the sort—it’s called a telescopic sight—but I thought it a recent invention.”

  “It wasn’t the only curious thing, Captain. There was the inscription on the stock, too. I saw it as clear as day. Remember every word of it. And all these years later, I still can’t make head nor tail of it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Wait. I’ll write it for you, just as I saw it.”

  He stood and crossed to a chest of drawers, retrieved a pencil and sheet of paper from it, used the furniture as a desk, and wrote something. He handed it to Burton. The explorer read:

  Lee–Enfield MK III. Manufactured in Tabora, Africa, 1918.

  Burton passed the note to Trounce, who said to the sweeper, “You didn’t tell me this before.”

  Old Carter shrugged. “You didn’t ask about the rifle, and to be honest, when we last spoke, I was shocked by the queen’s murder and addled by my memory loss.”

  Burton plucked the paper back out of Trounce’s hand and considered it.

  “If Lee–Enfield is the manufacturer, I’ve never heard of them. Nor have I heard of Tabora, and I know Africa perhaps better than any man. It must be in the south. The only rifles made in the north are Arabian flintlocks. And this—is it an issue number?”

  He pondered the words and numerals
, then shrugged, folded the paper, and put it in his pocket.

  “Old Carter,” he said, with a wry smile. “You’ve added bewilderment to my perplexity, but I thank you for your time.”

  He stood, and the other two followed suit.

  “It’s queer,” Old Carter said. “You so resemble the man I saw that I feel I know you.”

  Trounce added, “I feel the same.”

  “I wish I could offer an explanation,” Burton said, “but during the week since my return from Africa, I’ve encountered more mystery than I experienced in over a year travelling those unexplored lands.”

  Old Carter walked his guests out, into the street, and to their rotorchairs.

  “Sangappa,” he said.

  Burton turned to him. “What?”

  “Polish. Made in India. I was just thinking—the seat of your flying machine would benefit from it. Best in the world for preserving leather.”

  “Could it preserve me while I’m flying the confounded thing?”

  Old Carter grinned and regarded the contraption. “Aye, it’s a blessed miracle such a lump can get off the ground. You’ll not talk me into one, Captain. Not for all the tea in China.”

  “From what I’ve heard, tea from China might become a rare commodity. If someone offers it, I advise you not to refuse.”

  Burton and Trounce strapped goggles over their eyes, climbed into their vehicles, and started the engines. They gave Old Carter a wave, rose on cones of billowing steam, and soared into the sky.

  Trounce set a southwesterly course and Burton followed. They were soon over the outlying districts of London, and the clear air became smudged with its smoke. Below them, factory chimneys stretched upward as if ambitious to spoil the purer, higher atmosphere.

  A thought hit Burton like a punch to the head. Momentarily, he lost control of his machine.

  “Bismillah!”

  He grappled with the three flight rods as the rotorchair went spinning downward.

  “Impossible!” he gasped, yanking at the leftmost rod until the contraption stabilised. He saw a patch of greenery below—the East London Graveyard—and made for it.