Текст книги "The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Swinburne threw up his arms and squealed, “My dear lady, if a faith, in order to feel secure in itself, must condemn anyone whose opinion differs from its own, then it is a faith with no faith at all!”

“Algy, please,” Burton growled. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

Mrs. Arundell pushed her chair back and stood, her back stiff. “For once, I’m in agreement with my future son-in-law. If you feel it appropriate to question the beliefs held by your hosts, sir, then you are not a gentleman. I insist that you hold your tongue. If you cannot, you will oblige me by leaving this house.”

With that, she turned and stalked from the dining room.

“I say!” Swinburne muttered. “I never claimed to be a gentleman.”

“Pretend to be, lad,” Monckton Milnes advised. “Pretend to be.”

After lunch, the remaining Arundells made their excuses and left their wayward guests to their own devices.

Isabel returned to her bed. Isabella Beeton, Sister Raghavendra, and Lallah Bird settled in the drawing room.

Swinburne found a desk and set to work on his poem, Tristan and Isolde. Monckton Milnes and Levi buried themselves in the depths of a philosophical discussion. Sam Beeton and Doctor Bird played billiards. Burton chatted with Steinhaueser.

The afternoon passed, the rain pattered against the windows, and at seven o’clock everyone reconvened for dinner. Mrs. Arundell kept the length of the table between herself and Swinburne. Monckton Milnes assiduously regulated the poet’s drinking and Burton was at his sociable best, charming the gathering with tall tales of Africa and, quite remarkably, managing to keep those tales clean and palatable. Isabel, too—having napped for four hours—was effervescent and witty, which prompted Sam Beeton to say to Burton during the post-prandial smoking, “You two belong together, that much is obvious to all.”

“I never felt I belonged anywhere until I met her,” Burton replied. “Now I feel I can belong any place at all, provided I am with her.”

Beeton smiled and nodded. “I understand exactly what you mean, old man. Why, before I married, I was—Good Lord! What was that?”

A loud scream had echoed through the manor.

“Les femmes!” Eliphas Levi exclaimed.

Without another word, the men crashed out of the smoking room and raced along the hallway to the drawing room, where they found the women gathered around Lallah Bird, who’d apparently swooned onto a chaise longue.

“Stand back, please,” John Steinhaueser commanded. “Allow Doctor Bird to attend his wife.”

“What happened?” Burton asked.

“I don’t know,” Isabella Beeton answered. “She opened the curtain—” she pointed toward a nearby window, “—to see whether the moon had pierced the clouds, then screamed and fell back in a dead faint.”

“It was a face,” Blanche said. “I saw it, too. A terrible face!”

Smythe Piggott moved to his wife’s side and put a comforting arm around her.

“I need to get smelling salts from my bag,” George Bird muttered.

“Here, I have some. I always carry them with me,” Steinhaueser said, handing a small bottle to his colleague. He turned as a footman entered the room. “Would you fetch a glass of brandy, please?”

The clockwork figure clanged its assent and hastened away.

Burton moved to the window and looked out. The rain was still falling and the night was pitch dark. He couldn’t see a thing.

Lallah Bird uttered a small cry and pushed the smelling salts away from her face. She moaned and put her hands to her mouth. Her husband helped her to sit up.

The footman returned with the brandy, and after a couple of sips of it, Lallah’s eyes fluttered open and she wailed, “I saw a man! Oh, George! A horrible brute at the window!”

“There there, dearest,” Bird said. “It was probably Tom Honesty, the gardener.”

“He hardly qualifies as a brute,” Swinburne protested. “And at this time of night? In this rain?”

The doctor frowned at him. “I think it rather less likely that we’d have an intruder in such weather, don’t you?”

“It wasn’t Tom,” Lallah said. “It was a—a—a monstrosity!”

“I’m going to take a look outside,” Burton announced. The other men—with the exception of Uncle Renfric and Doctor Bird—immediately elected to accompany him.

While the group changed into overcoats and boots, the cousins Rudolph and Jack went down to the basement storage rooms and returned with five clockwork lanterns.

Separating into pairs, the men left the manor and spread out across the grounds. Burton, with Swinburne, first examined the lawn where it abutted the wall beneath the window, but the grass there was short, springy, and despite being wet, didn’t hold a print.

They spent forty minutes in the unceasing rain.

There were no signs of an interloper.

George Bird gave his wife a mild sedative and the women went to bed. The men stayed up until well past midnight.

When Burton finally retired, he looked in on Bram and found him fast asleep. The explorer hadn’t seen much of the boy—just for the change of clothes after visiting the castle and dressing to dine in the evening—but he knew the Whisperer was enjoying his time “below stairs,” having become a firm favourite with the staff.

The explorer fell into a profoundly deep sleep the moment he laid his head on the pillow. He dreamt he was inside a brightly lit castle, talking to Nurse Florence Nightingale, which was curious because he’d never met her.

“You will lie still, sir, or I shall have you strapped down.”

Damn and blast you, woman! I’m perfectly fine!

“You know that isn’t true.”

I know you’re an interfering, meddlesome, infuriating shrew!

“Undo your shirt. I have to listen to your heart.”

And I have to listen to whatever that blundering young dolt is thinking, which I can’t do with you fussing around me like a bloody gadfly. You’re a confounded distraction, woman!

“Thank you. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Now shut up. You’ve made yourself breathless. Much more nonsense and you’ll have palpitations again, which is, need I remind you, exactly what you brought me here to prevent.”

Then hurry up about it and begone! The crisis is upon us. I must concentrate.

“Richard! Richard!”

Burton woke up. Someone was knocking on the bedroom door.

“Richard! Rouse yourself, man!”

Bram Stoker stepped out of the valet’s room, rubbing his eyes.

“See who that is, lad,” Burton mumbled. He sat up and reached for his watch. It was a quarter to eight.

Bram opened the door. John Steinhaueser, wrapped in a dressing gown, stepped in. “Richard. Come at once. Something is wrong with Isabel.”

“What? Is she ill?” Burton jumped out of bed, lifted his jubbah from the bedpost, and hastily wound it about himself.

“She won’t wake up. Her maid found her in—in—”

“In what?”

“She might be in a coma, Richard.”

Burton told Bram to prepare his clothes then followed Steinhaueser out of the room and along first one corridor, then a second, until they came to Isabel’s room. Her mother and father, both in night attire, were standing by the door, their faces drawn and pale.

Henry Arundell reached out and took the explorer by the elbow. “Steady, son. Doctor Bird and Sister Raghavendra are with her.”

Burton looked past him and saw Isabel in her bed, her pallid features framed by outspread hair. She looked ghastly, her face as white as the sheets on which she lay, her skin translucently taut again her cheekbones, her breathing laboured and painful to hear.

Steinhaueser said, “Mr. Arundell, I should like Richard to be at her bedside. His presence may pull her out of it.”

Arundell looked at his wife, who chewed her bottom lip and gave a hesitant nod.

“Very well,” Arundell said. “Providing Miss Raghavendra is also present.”

Steinhaueser nodded and led Burton into the room. The explorer took hold of Isabel’s hand. It felt cold and limp.

“Deeply unconscious,” Doctor Bird said. “But I can’t fathom why.” He rubbed his chin. “I hear you’re well practised in the art of mesmerism, Sir Richard. Tell me what you think of this.” Leaning over his patient, he used his thumb to lift her right eyelid. Isabel’s pupil was fixed, directed straight ahead, the iris a pinprick.

Burton gave a guttural confirmation. “She appears to be entranced.”

“Not comatose, hmmm?” Steinhaueser asked. “But the sluggishness of her pulse—is that symptomatic of a mesmeric stupor?”

“It is,” Burton said, “as is, in extreme cases, catalepsy.” He dropped his fiancée’s hand and turned to her parents. “Mr. Arundell, I should like to call Monsieur Levi.”

Before Henry Arundell could answer, his wife snapped, “I hardly think the presence of a failed priest is necessary!”

“On the contrary,” Burton said, “Monsieur Levi possesses specialist knowledge. His opinion regarding this is essential.”

Isabel’s mother opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by Henry Arundell, who gripped her arm, muttered, “Be quiet, dear,” and said to Burton, “I shall fetch him at once, Richard.”

“Thank you, sir. Mrs. Arundell, would you step in, please? I want to send Sister Raghavendra back to her bed.”

Sadhvi shook her head. “I’m all right.”

“No,” Burton said. “Go and rest. You may be needed to nurse Isabel later.”

The Sister reluctantly stood and left the room.

Eliza Arundell whispered, “Doctor Bird, is my daughter in danger?”

“I hardly know, ma’am,” Bird responded. “Mesmerism is Sir Richard’s field of expertise, not mine. Physically, her pulse is weak and she has the symptoms of anaemia, which in themselves are not life-threatening, but as to the cause—” He shrugged.

A few minutes later, Henry Arundell returned and ushered Levi into the room.

Immediately upon seeing Isabel’s prone form, the Frenchman hurried to the side of the bed and bent over her, touching his fingertips to her jugular, lifting her eyelids, and placing a hand mirror under her nostrils so that her breath was visible upon it. He straightened and, with a grim expression, said to Burton, “Sir Richard, nous avons un problème grave.”

“Then it is as I suspect?”

“Oui, I am certain. Les symptômes, they are unmistakable.”

Burton looked down at Isabel. Almost inaudibly, he said, “Bismillah! Why didn’t I recognise the signs earlier? The damnable Beast is among us.”

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In thirty different languages, Sir Richard Francis Burton cursed himself for a bloody fool. Secured in the library with Swinburne, Levi, Monckton Milnes, and Steinhaueser, he fumed and paced, smoked furiously, and uttered every expletive he knew—and he knew a great many.

“I can understand him being upset that Isabel is unwell,” Steinhaueser whispered to Monckton Milnes, “but why is he taking on so?”

“That’s for him to explain,” Monckton Milnes replied, “which he undoubtedly will do once he’s calmed down, else he wouldn’t have invited you to join us.”

Nettles entered with a pot of coffee and set it down on a sideboard. “Will the gentlemen require anything else?”

“No,” Burton barked. “Get out! We’re not to be disturbed!”

Levi poured each of them a cup and, despite it still being early—eleven in the morning—also went to the drinks cabinet and retrieved a decanter of brandy.

“Hell and damnation!” Burton spat. “It’s my fault. I should have cancelled the party and stayed in London; instead, I’ve drawn a bloody nosferatu here.”

“Nosferatu?” Steinhaueser asked.

Burton flicked his hand impatiently and snarled, “Tell him.”

“Richard,” Monckton Milnes said, “we are still dealing with state secrets. I don’t think the king had it in mind for you to freely dispense information and recruit an army.”

“To blazes with the king!”

Steinhaueser looked at each of them in turn. “The king? What are you all up to?”

Monckton Milnes looked at Eliphas Levi and gave an almost imperceptible nod. The occultist took out his pipe and smoked it while quietly explaining to John Steinhaueser the nature of Perdurabo and the threat he represented.

Burton listened and slowly regained his composure. He threw his cigar into the fireplace, immediately lit another, then sat and glowered at Steinhaueser, watching his every reaction to the incredible tale.

“Is this a—a joke? A legend?” the doctor stammered. “A story?” He looked again from Levi to Monckton Milnes and from Swinburne to Burton. “Surely it’s not true?”

“It’s true,” Burton said. “And I’ll be damned if I let Perdurabo anywhere near Isabel again. I’ll sit beside her the night through with a gun in my hand. But let’s not wait for sundown. Styggins, how did you travel here?”

“In my steam sphere.”

“Good. I want you to take it out for a spin. Drive around the local villages, talk to the bobbies, find out if there are any strangers in the district, especially any who are nocturnal in their habits. Take my valet with you. Whisperers tend to notice things the police don’t.”

Burton addressed Monckton Milnes. “Organise a search of the house. It’s a big place with plenty of rooms, attics, and cellars where a man might hide, so be thorough. Don’t miss an inch of it.”

Finally, he spoke to Eliphas Levi. “Monsieur, will you join Doctor Bird at my fiancée’s bedside? You best understand her condition.”

“Oui, of course.”

The men rose and set about their tasks. Burton went to his room, pulled a leather case from beneath a bed, and opened it to reveal a brace of pistols. He pushed them into his waistband and buttoned his coat to conceal them. Picking up the lantern he’d used last night, he told Bram to follow him, went downstairs, and joined Swinburne and Steinhaueser in the entrance hall. They left the house—the rain had ceased but it was a damp and chilly day—and strode to a row of low buildings that lay a few yards to the east of the mansion. Steinhaueser entered one and a few moments later they heard the unmistakable hissing and panting of a steam sphere. The vehicle rolled out and came to a halt.

Burton said, “If you identify where John Judge is holed up, don’t approach him, don’t challenge him, don’t hesitate for a single moment—just report back here as quickly as you can.”

“Understood,” the doctor said. He gestured to Bram. “Hop in, nipper.”

The boy rubbed his hands in delight at the prospect of a ride in the contraption—in the passenger seat rather than the storage compartment!—and swung himself into it, settling beside the doctor. He looked out at Burton. “And me, Cap’n?”

“The same. If you learn anything, get word back to me immediately.”

Burton and Swinburne watched as the vehicle steamed away toward the estate’s entrance gate.

“What about us?” Swinburne asked.

Burton pointed at a steam-driven landau. “We’ll drive up to the old castle, Algy, and this time we’re going to search it from top to bottom.” Burton swallowed nervously. “Including the vaults.”

They found nothing.

New Wardour Castle held none but the Arundells and their guests and servants, the surrounding villages were occupied by locals and no one else, and Old Wardour Castle was inhabited only by spiders, beetles, and ravens.

Burton had been thoroughly unnerved by the vaults. Dark, dank, and infested, they had too much of the grave about them. Years ago, in India, he’d witnessed holy men being buried alive. Many of them had been dug up days later—in some cases weeks—still living and none the worse for their experience. Others, though, had suffocated to death, their noses and mouths filled with soil and worms. The memory of it had led him to tell Isabel, shortly before his departure for Africa, that when he died, she must not under any circumstances have him buried.

“I should hate to wake up and find myself underground.”

“A cremation, then?” she’d asked, unhappily. Catholics didn’t favour cremations, and she secretly hoped Burton might convert some day.

“Gad, no! I don’t want to burn before I have to! A mausoleum, Isabel. Above ground and with light shining in. We shall lie in it side by side.”

“Oh, I like that idea, but would you mind awfully if we grow tremendously old together first?”

“I shan’t mind that at all, darling.”

Isabel. Isabel.

She was awake.

Sam Beeton announced it as soon as Burton and Swinburne returned to the mansion. Without bothering to change out of his dust-stained and web-bestrewn clothes, the explorer raced up the stairs and along the corridor to his fiancée’s room.

Doctor Bird, Eliphas Levi, Smythe Piggott, and Blanche were with her.

“She’s very weak,” Bird said, “but the trance is broken.”

Burton sat on the edge of the bed and took Isabel’s hand. It was cold. Her eyes opened and she gave him a faint smile.

“I’ve been dreaming, Dick,” she whispered. “I was riding on horseback across an African savannah, leading a band of wild Bedouin women. I felt such . . . freedom.”

“Perhaps it was a premonition,” he replied, knowing how much she desired adventure.

“A premonition. A premonition.” Her eyes appeared to focus on something far away. “Yet I feel I’ve already been there,” she said, dreamily. “Like a memory. I can still smell the spice in the air.”

Burton glanced at Levi. The occultist was standing with his arms crossed over his chest and his back to the window. His brows were drawn low over his eyes, his mouth set in a grim line. Behind him, something dark moved on the exterior sill, attracting Burton’s attention. It was a raven, big and black and staring implacably in at them.

Isabel whispered. “Why do I feel so feeble, Dick? Am I sick?”

He looked back at her. “Yes, dear, but we have two doctors and a nurse in the house. They’ll make you well again.”

“In time for the ball?”

Burton looked at Doctor Bird. The man made the slightest of gestures, indicating that he had no answer.

“Yes, Isabel, and we shall dance the night through.”

“I’ll need the doctors again afterward,” she mumbled.

“Why so?”

“Because you dance so clumsily. My feet will be a terrible mess.”

She sighed, smiled, closed her eyes, and drifted into sleep.

Blanche was clutching a Bible. She lifted it to her lips, kissed it, and placed it on the pillow beside her sister’s head.

“That is wise, mademoiselle,” Levi said softly. “Faith strengthens the will, and it is willpower she requires.”

“But what is wrong with her, Monsieur Levi? Do you know? The doctors can tell me nothing.”

“It is beyond my experience,” Bird confirmed.

“She is the victim,” Levi said, “of a parasite.”

Blanche gasped. “What can be done?”

Burton reached across and touched her arm. “She’ll recover providing we look after her. I shall sit at her side all night.”

“Very well, but Mama and Papa will insist that propriety is observed, so I’ll stay with you.”

“No, Blanche, you sleep. Be strong for tomorrow. Sadhvi Raghavendra will chaperone.”

“But—”

“She is a Sister of Noble Benevolence—her presence alone will aid Isabel’s recovery.”

Blanche pressed her lips together then nodded reluctantly.

“Good girl.” Burton scrutinised Isabel’s face. It was pale and pinched, her eyes shadowed. Standing, he said, “She must have peace and quiet and I am desperate for a change of clothing. I’ll come back later. Monsieur, will you join me in the library in half an hour?”

“Oui, I shall be there.”

Burton went to his room. Bram helped him to dress.

“I spoke to the Whisperers in Tisbury, Cap’n. There’s a message for ye from Mr. Macallister Fogg.”

“Trounce? What is it?”

“That Mr. Thomas Great Harris has arrived in London and is currently president at the Regency.”

“President? You probably mean resident.”

“Ah, yes, I expect so.”

“And it’s Lake Harris. Anything else?”

“Aye, they say there’s trouble a-brewin’ in the Cauldron.”

“There always is, lad.”

“You’re not wrong, sir, always trouble there. But have ye ever known there to be political unrest in the blessed place?”

“Political!” Burton exclaimed. “Great heavens, no. The population couldn’t give two hoots about politics, lad. They’re far too busy coshing heads and burglarising to have a care about anything that might be said or done in parliament.”

Bram put a brush to the explorer’s jacket, sweeping specks of lint from it.

“To be sure, sir, yet the whisper is that voices are bein’ raised against our Alliance with the Central German Confederation.”

“East Enders protesting about international affairs? By James, I wouldn’t credit them with even knowing Europe exists! What on earth has riled them so?”

“It’s a regular mystery, so it is. There, Cap’n, neat an’ tidy, ye are.”

“Thank you, Bram. Can you keep yourself occupied for the afternoon?”

“Not half! Doctor Steinhaueser bought me the latest issue of The Baker Street Detective, so he did. I’m eager to discover what our friend Mr. Macallister Fogg has been up to.”

A few minutes later, Burton left his valet in the grip of The Mystery of the Master Mummer’s Mummy and joined Levi, Swinburne, Monckton Milnes, and Steinhaueser in the library where, having missed lunch, they’d been provided with a platter of cold meats, pickles, and breads, which they were picking at in a desultory manner.

“I have just resisted the urge to sneer at young Stoker’s choice of reading material,” Burton announced. “He’s lapping up a tale of Egyptian mummies come to life. Now I find myself having to discuss, in all seriousness, a vampire in our midst. If I awake in a moment in Africa, having feverishly hallucinated everything that has occurred these past weeks, only then will life make any sort of sense.” He pulled a cheroot from his top pocket, held it between his teeth, struck a lucifer, and watched the spluttering flame for a few seconds before applying it to the cigar. Inhaling the sweet smoke, he forced it out through his nostrils and continued, “But the one thing I know for sure is that my fiancée is suffering, and I won’t stand for that, so I have to accept this as neither myth nor fantasy—one way or another I’m going to stop Perdurabo.”

His friends remained silent, their faces perfectly reflecting Burton’s stony determination.

“Monsieur,” Burton said, turning to Levi, “according to folklore, a vampire is able to transform itself into an animal, or even vapour, yes?”

“Ah,” Levi replied. “You think of the ravens?”

“I do.”

“It is this way: Perdurabo, his volonté inhabit John Judge, but it is not attach to the flesh. Certain animals, they sense when that which make a man alive leave the body; they feel the loosening of the volonté, and it attract them, for they are scavengers. So ravens or crows or wolves or hyenas, they are seen where a nosferatu or strigoi morti is, and the superstitious people, they think transformation.”

“And the vapour? Can Perdurabo enter the house in the form of steam or smoke?”

“He already show that, at least for a short time, his volonté can exist without une forme physique—vapour is a symbol of this—but he can do nothing in this state. He have to possess a man to survive and to feed off others.”

Swinburne twitched and shuddered. “My hat! How can we battle such a monstrosity?”

“We must kill the body he occupy while he is still in it. Take him by surprise.”

“Must I remind you all that John Judge is an innocent man?” Monckton Milnes put in. “He is a victim. Are we to murder him?”

Levi put his hands into the position of prayer and touched his fingertips to his lips. “He have been with the nosferatu inside for a month. It is too long. If it leave him more soon to possess another, it is possible for him to recover, but after this much time, now he becomes nosferatu, too. It is how the species survive and spread. To kill him is to save him.”

“Is there no other way?” Monckton Milnes asked.

The Frenchman closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Gentlemen,” Burton said, “not a one of you is under obligation. I am commissioned by the king, you are not. If you wish to disassociate yourself from this matter, do so now. I will not blame you. Friendships, old and new, will not be affected.”

“I stand with you, Richard,” Swinburne said.

“And I,” Steinhaueser added.

Monckton Milnes put a hand over his eyes. “Now I fear even more for Florence Nightingale. My God, what if they took her to be—to be food for this damnable creature? I’m with you. Of course I’m with you.”

Levi said, “Then we are together.”

Burton looked at each man in turn, his expression communicating his gratitude. He asked Levi, “Do you think the nosferatu is liable to strike tonight?”

“It is inévitable. For his volonté to survive, it must draw from others très fréquemment.”

“Then I suggest we rest for a couple of hours, gentlemen. Tonight, we confront the vampire.”

They worked quietly and they concealed the truth. Burton knew it was more than the Arundells could accept, though he felt strongly inclined to recruit Sam Beeton and, inexplicably and absurdly, even more drawn to confide in the man’s pregnant wife, Isabella. Monckton Milnes persuaded him otherwise. “Take advice from a man who knows. In divulging sensitive information, one must consider every recipient as an insecure container. Secrets leak like water, and the more implausible they are, the more likely it is that they’ll flood beyond the bounds.”

He was right, of course.

To Mr. and Mrs. Arundell, Burton said, “We think the trespasser seen by Lallah Bird is still somewhere on the estate. We also suspect he’s carrying the disease—or, rather, the parasite—that has infected Isabel. Swinburne, Monckton Milnes, Steinhaueser, and Monsieur Levi will patrol the grounds tonight.”

Eliza Arundell looked perplexed. “This man—a fugitive?—does he threaten the household?”

“In so much that he’s chosen to hide out in the vicinity, yes.”

“Then I shall gather more men to help you,” Henry Arundell said.

“If you’ll allow, sir, I’d prefer to limit the numbers to those I’ve named. I should like to catch the man, so we might hand him over to the authorities. If too many of us patrol the estate, we’re liable to scare him away, possibly to inflict his disease upon others.”

Henry Arundell considered for a moment then nodded. “Whatever you think best.”

Though they’d accepted Burton’s explanation for the face at the window and for Isabel’s condition, the Arundells were rather less approving of the crushed garlic bulbs Levi had liberally distributed around their daughter’s bedchamber.

“What a terrible reek!” her father objected. “What in the name of God are you trying to do? Suffocate her?”

“It sterilise the atmosphere,” Levi asserted. “The odour is unpleasant, but it help drive the parasite away.”

Arundell wrinkled his nose. “And the crucifixes?” he asked, gesturing at the many additional crosses Levi had added to the room.

The Frenchman quoted, “‘The Lord will keep you from all evil; He will keep your life.’”

Henry Arundell had blinked confusedly at this and departed, pulling his wife after him.

“Whenever Isabel open her eyes,” Levi said to Burton, “she must see the cross; must be reminded of what she most deeply believe in. She not let go of it, not allow Perdurabo to steal her will to live.”

Later, during a subdued dinner, Blanche asked, “Should we cancel the party, mother?”

“At such short notice?” Eliza Arundell exclaimed.

“To be frank with you, ma’am,” Doctor Bird interjected, “even if the crisis has passed, I cannot envision your daughter being strong enough by Saturday.”

“We’ll postpone for a fortnight, not cancel,” Henry Arundell said. “Which means we have nearly three hundred letters of apology to write.” He addressed the butler. “Nettles, have a couple of the footmen report to my study. I believe Clunk and Tick have the best calligraphy?”

“They do, sir.”

“Good. I’ll compose, they can copy.” Turning back to his guests, he said, “It’s the fastest way. They write so rapidly their hands become a blur. We’ll have the letters ready to post first thing in the morning.”

After dinner, the family took to the chapel to pray for Isabel’s recovery. Their guests socialised for a short time but a tense atmosphere hung over New Wardour Castle and a couple of hours after the sun had set, everyone retreated to their rooms.

Sadhvi Raghavendra joined Burton to stand watch over Isabel. They lit a wall lamp but adjusted the wick until the light was dim, so as not to disturb the patient, though she appeared to be in an extremely deep sleep.

“She is dreaming, Richard. You see how her eyes move beneath the lids? But they are not happy dreams. Her limbs are jumping, as if she is imagining herself fleeing from danger.”

“Dreamt dangers are ephemeral, Sadhvi. I’m more concerned about the real.”

Burton lowered himself into a chair, removed one of the pistols from his waistband, and held it resting on his thigh. Sadhvi also sat.

“I’ve hardly seen you today,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“We Sisters are very sensitive to . . . balance.”

“Balance? What do you mean by that?”

“Everything possesses a natural point of equanimity, and we have an affinity with that state, thus we sense when it is disturbed; when things become askew. What is happening to Isabel is an imbalance. Matters surrounding her are out of joint. I feel it and it distresses and tires me.”

“Why didn’t you say? Go to bed. I’ll recruit Blanche for sentry duty.”

“No. I prefer to stay.” She smiled. “It reminds me of when we sat up to guard the camp on the shores of the Nyanza Lake. Africa was difficult, but it was a happy time. Already, I miss it.”

Burton nodded. They gave themselves over to memories and silent companionship, breathed garlicky fumes, and the hours passed.

In a distant hallway, a grandfather clock chimed two.

Movement roused Burton and Raghavendra; they had both fallen into a light doze. It was Isabel. She was sitting up, her eyes glazed and her face slack. She pushed the bedsheets back, swung her bare feet to the floor, and stood.

“Isabel?” Burton asked.

She didn’t answer or even acknowledge him.

“Sleepwalking,” Sadhvi whispered.

Burton jumped up, crossed to the door, turned the key in the lock, then pulled it out and stepped back.

His fiancée swayed for a moment. She moaned softly, ran to the door, and pulled its handle. A whine of frustration escaped her. She tugged at it, twisted it, then fisted her hands and hammered them against the portal.