Текст книги "The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

London, Burton thought. And vengeance.

“Character is destiny.”

–HERACLITUS, FRAGMENTS

NOTICE

PREVENTIVES OF CHOLERA!

Published by order of the Sanitary Committee,

under the sanction of the Medical Council.

BE TEMPERATE IN EATING & DRINKING!

Avoid Raw Vegetables and Unripe Fruit!

Abstain from COLD WATER,

and above all from ARDENT SPIRITS.

If habit has rendered them indispensable,

take much less than usual.

They were back in the capital by mid-afternoon.

“I need to meditate,” Burton said. “I have to repair the damage done to me. I cannot function like this—my heart is ruling my head. We’re all exhausted, too. I suggest we reconvene tomorrow. Let us face the enemy refreshed.”

“Smashing!” Swinburne exclaimed. “I shall have Betsy thwack some sense into me, else this sensation that I’m stuck in the pages of one of Bram’s lurid penny dreadfuls is liable to continue.” He crossed and uncrossed his arms. “My apologies, Richard. That was insensitive of me. This is all rather too real.”

“It is, Algy. Go to your dolly-mop if you must, but don’t overindulge. We have much to do tomorrow.”

The poet left them while Burton and Levi continued on to Montagu Place. There, the occultist immersed himself once again in the library. Burton sent a summons to Detective Inspector Trounce via the Whispering Web then went up to his bedroom and gulped down an entire bottle of Saltzmann’s Tincture. The cure-all coursed through his veins and turned him into the vacuum at the heart of a swirling storm of light; caused his anguish to flare into countless possibilities; made his isolation branch into infinite multiplicities; but it did not bring back Isabel.

He slumped in his armchair—barely aware of the occultist, who was reading at one of the desks—and for two hours stared at one of the windows, perceiving it to be stacked upon itself, like a pack of cards, as if present over and over.

Shuffle them, select one, and look out at a slightly different world.

He heard a carriage draw up outside.

Watch it. See its door open. Isabel steps out and pays the driver. She crosses to number 14 and yanks the bellpull.

She didn’t ring. She knocked, a strident hammering. It broke the spell.

The explorer let out a small cry, as if wounded.

“Monsieur?” Levi said.

“Dreaming,” Burton muttered. He rubbed his eyes, stood, and went out onto the landing.

The front door was open and Mrs. Angell was arguing with Trounce.

“You could be King George him-bloomin’-self, but you’ll not set foot in this ’ere house until you scrapes yer blessed boots.”

“My dear woman, I’ve practically scraped ’em thin! I have no desire to arrest you, but if you don’t stand aside, so help me, I’ll—”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Angell,” Burton called. “Let him in, please.”

“With all that muck around his soles?” she protested.

“Leave your boots in the hallway, old man,” Burton advised. “You can warm your feet by my fire.”

Reluctantly, Trounce did as instructed and started up the stairs.

Mrs. Angell glowered at his feet and muttered, “An’ them stockings ain’t none-the-cleaner neither!”

The police detective hurried into the study, greeted Levi, and gave a gasp of relief when Burton closed the door behind him.

“By Jove! I feel like I’m committing a felony every time I set foot on your carpets. Have you seen the streets? The sewers are so backed up the filth is overflowing into ’em! What am I supposed to do, walk on stilts?”

“You’ll just have to be patient, like everyone else,” Burton responded. “Wasn’t Bazalgette supposed to have opened the sluice gates by now?”

“He was, but the riots have slowed him down. The tunneling has been halted beneath the Alton Ale warehouse in the Cauldron. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all. The rioting is really that serious?”

“The whole district has gone barking mad.”

Trounce sat down, took a cigar from his pocket, and toyed with it irresolutely, turning it in his fingers and passing it from hand to hand. “I heard about—about—I’m not much good at—at—well, I’m sorry that—about what happened to—um—Miss Arundell. Are you—are you all right?”

“I’ve not properly dealt with it yet. Let me get you a brandy. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

Over the next half-hour, Burton and Levi gave an account of the events at New Wardour Castle.

The explorer’s mind played tricks. With every incident he reported, the Saltzmann’s caused him to sense all the alternatives that might have occurred, as if each event had produced echoes, every one a slight variation of the original.

Having listened in silence, Trounce said, “This is so far beyond my ken it might as well be a fairy tale. I have no idea how to proceed.”

“By keeping your ears open for any reports of the dead coming back to life,” Burton said. “Perdurabo will continue to feed, and so will his victims. These strigoi morti—as Monsieur Levi refers to them—are going to proliferate, and rapidly. They can’t go unnoticed for long.”

“They hunt at night,” Eliphas Levi commented.

Trounce grunted. “Humph! Very well. May we return to sane matters?”

Burton gestured for him to continue.

“There have been no further abductions reported,” the police detective said, “but something else has come to light. I remembered you saying Eugenics was at the heart of all this, and that it requires medical knowledge and machinery. Four days ago, equipment and supplies were stolen from the chemical laboratories at the University College on Upper Gower Street. It prompted me to go through the records. It turns out there have been a spate of such burglaries all around the city over the past two months. It looks to me as if someone has been gathering the means to create their own laboratory, and an extravagant one, at that.”

Burton said, “Ah! I wonder where.”

“I’ve put out a general order for our constables to keep their eyes peeled, but our resources are stretched thin at the moment. We’ve had to divert a lot of men to the East End.”

“What’s happening there? It’s political agitation, I heard.”

“It is, and it’s worsening every day. We’ve managed to keep it out of the rags so far—fortunately newspapermen are too cowardly to set foot in the Cauldron—but Chief Commissioner Mayne is concerned that when the story breaks, as it inevitably will, it might stir up trouble in other parts of the country. Look at these.”

Trounce reached into his jacket and pulled out a number of leaflets, handing them to Burton. They were each printed on one side only; black ink on cheap paper.

“Apparently, they’re all over the area,” the Scotland Yard man said. “Pasted to lampposts, doors, window shutters—thousands of them.”

Burton examined the first, struggling to bring his eyes into focus.

The Germanic States Must Be Destroyed!

Oppose the Confederation! Oppose the Alliance!

Save British Jobs!

Save British Pride!

Save the British Empire!

He turned to the next.

German Trickery!

Do not believe the lies you have been told.

Prince Albert is German.

He is working for German interests not for British.

The Central German Confederation wants our trade.

It is greedy for our territory and for our influence.

Resist those who promote this foreign power and undermine our own.

Fight for Britain! Fight the enemy among us!

Burton made a small exclamation and held one of the leaflets up to the light. He snapped his fingers, went to a desk, returned, and handed a pamphlet to Trounce. “You remember this?”

“‘The Language of the Angels.’ Yes, of course, it’s from the League of Enochians Gentlemen’s Club.”

“Look at the paper, Trounce. It’s the same brand, and printed with the same ink.”

“By Jove! Are the Enochians spreading this sedition? Then we’ve got them. We have cause to raid their headquarters.”

“We do, but hold off. Such tactics will get us nowhere. Is Thomas Lake Harris still at the Regency?”

“Yes. I have Spearing keeping a round-the-clock watch on him.”

“I intend to approach him tomorrow night—see if he’ll take me into the club as a guest. I daresay I can find out more from posing as a friend than if we storm the place swinging truncheons at them.”

“Messieurs,” Levi said, “this hate of the Germanic countries, it link again the Enochians to Perdurabo.”

“The—what did you call him?—Nefertiti?” Trounce asked.

“Nosferatu.”

“How so?”

“You recall Captain Taylor of the Royal Charter—he report voices in the crater where Perdurabo take possession of John Judge. They suggest a battle against German forces, non? Too, Countess Sabina, she claim that Abdu El Yezdi try to prevent a war.”

“With a united Germany, you mean?” Burton asked.

“Oui. It explain why all this business occur at this moment in time, with the Alliance, you see?”

Burton nodded. “I think you’re right. I’d venture that, while Abdu El Yezdi has manipulated the government to broker peace and avoid a conflict, Perdurabo is using the Enochians to provoke the war early, before Germany has the manufacturing power it would gain from the Alliance.”

“Exactement!”

Trounce scratched his head. “Provoke it by stirring up the Cauldron? That’s a stretch. The place is a hive of criminals and paupers—what influence do they have?”

“They have the weight of numbers,” Burton responded. “Plus a lack of education and a grudge against the better-off. Mobilise that, and you have an army eager to fight, whatever the cause. Besides, I suspect this—” he waved one of the leaflets, “—is just the beginning.”

“I know you can’t sit still at the best of times,” Burton whispered to Algernon Swinburne, “but this is beyond the bounds. Will you please control yourself? You’re attracting attention.”

“I can’t help it. Betsy has a very strong right arm. You should’ve come with me to Verbena Lodge, Richard. The madams are the strictest in London.”

“I’ve spent the day in peaceful meditation, Algy. I find it preferable to having my arse striped.”

Behind them, a portly woman leaned forward and hissed, “Shhh!”

Swinburne rolled his eyes at Burton, as if to say, Good grief, somebody actually wants to listen to this balderdash!

The balderdash in question was spouting from the mouth of Mr. Thomas Lake Harris, who was standing on a podium in Almack’s Assembly Rooms addressing a crowd of about three hundred, Burton and Swinburne among them.

He was a tall man, with low black eyebrows, a long black beard, and a sallow countenance. His eyes blazed intensely as he declaimed, “At this moment, drew near a Spirit who represented a Mercury or messenger, though indeed as to form he was beautiful as fabled Endymion. He appeared in the flower of his youth, and moved as if borne on the breath of the swift electric atmosphere. I heard a sound as of melodious voices, and in a moment beheld a multitude gathered together, assembled by proclamation; the character of which was, that news from Earth was permitted to be uttered through a man who, as to his body, was a resident of the natural world, but who, as to his spirit, was elevated into their society. These spirits all appeared to be in the acknowledgement of one Lord God. The beginning of all things they acknowledged to be not in Nature, but in the Divine Ability of One Eternal Spirit.”

“Hogwash, phooey, and bunkum,” Swinburne muttered, imitating Harris’s American accent. “How much more of this has my sore bum to endure?”

“You’ve no one to blame but yourself,” Burton noted.

Swinburne giggled. “Swish! Thwack! Swish! Thwack! Utterly delicious!”

The woman behind him leaned forward again and said, “Sir, if you persist in talking through Mr. Harris’s presentation, I shall have little choice but to apply my umbrella to the top of your head.”

“Madam,” Swinburne responded, “I should prefer the other end, and a weapon with a little more bite.”

“Well!” the woman exclaimed indignantly. “I never did!”

“No matter, for Betsy already has!”

Burton pushed his companion to his feet. “Come on, Algy. I think we’ve heard enough from Mr. Harris for now.”

“I’d heard enough five minutes after he started,” Swinburne complained as they edged through onlookers to the side of the auditorium. They moved along the wall until they came to a door, passed through it into a side hall, and followed it to the double doors that opened into the club bar.

A couple of minutes later, they settled at a table, each with a pint of beer. Burton took a long draught. The previous day’s dose of Saltzmann’s had worn off, leaving him thirsty.

“I’ve arranged with the manager for us to meet Mr. Harris when he finishes,” he said. “We’ll wait here. I find a glass of beer much easier to swallow than all that hokum about angels.”

“Not half,” Swinburne enthused.

“I hope he’ll be our key to unlock the Enochians’ door, but as soon as we’ve had a poke around enemy territory, we’ll then do the same at Battersea Power Station, as a matter of urgency. I trust you’re set for a long night.”

They’d consumed two pints each by the time the audience filed out of the assembly room. The bar began to fill up with club members and was soon noisy and wreathed in tobacco smoke.

Almack’s manager entered with Harris, spotted Burton, and ushered the American over. He introduced them, then made a polite withdrawal, his presence being required elsewhere.

“Well now,” Harris said, in a nasal New York accent, “the Nile, hey? That’s quite something, Burton; yes, sir, it sure is! I gotta tell you, I’m a big admirer of yours. I’ve read your books, an’ you don’t beat about the bush like the rest of the English. I like a straight-talkin’ man. You’re a fella after my own heart.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harris. Would you join us for a beverage?”

“Sure, I’d be happy to. Whisky. A large one. All that speechifyin’ has left me dry.”

Burton called a pot-boy over and ordered the whisky and two more beers.

“I’ll take a beer as well,” Harris put in.

“And I’ll have a whisky, too,” Swinburne added.

“Say, Swinburne, what business are you in?”

“I’m a poet, sir.”

“Is that so? I do a little in that line myself. Whaddya think of this?” Harris spread his arms wide and recited, in too loud a voice:

To God be praise! This happy work is done:

It spreads towards man the Solar Angel’s pinions.

My mind conceived this poem of the sun

Long years ago, when all the world’s dominions

In clouds of fantasy were veiled; while death

Held empire in man’s universal breath.

Swinburne glanced at Burton. “That’s—um—very interesting, Mr. Harris. Am I then mistaken in my assumption that limericks are the principle form of verse in America?”

“Limericks, sir?”

“Quite so. A spiritual man from Rhode Island, had an uncanny knack to beguile and, seduce lovely women, and leave their heads swimmin’, but he—”

“Mr. Harris,” Burton interrupted hastily, “I’m intrigued by your thesis concerning the nature of angels. Have you been contacted directly?”

“Yup. I’m blessed with vivid dreams, Burton. Blessed is the word. The Lily Queen has revealed much of the true nature of existence to me.”

“Ah, yes, the Lily Queen. She is your wife, if I’m not mistaken?”

“My spirit wife, sir. She exists in Lilistan, the interspace inhabited by the angel folk, and has so far borne me two celestial children.”

Harris had turned to face Burton. Behind his back, Swinburne waggled a forefinger against his temple, stuck his tongue out, and crossed his eyes. Burton tried to ignore him, a task made easier by the arrival of fresh drinks.

“Good health, sir,” Burton toasted.

“Yours, too,” Harris responded. He downed the whisky in one, picked up his pint, and half-emptied it in a single swig. “You see, Burton, we ain’t alone in the universe. All the planets that circle our sun are inhabited by spiritual beings, and there are Lunarians on the far side of our moon who remember Oriana, the world where evil originated, an’ which the moon once orbited.”

“I see,” Burton said.

“This was revealed to you during dreams?” Swinburne asked. “Do you perhaps take anything to help you sleep?”

“It was, an’ I don’t. The thing of it is, if a man could attune himself to the rhythmic chord that leads the harmonic vibrations between these worlds, why, he could live forever. Immortality, Burton! How does that sound, hey?”

“Quite difficult to grasp.”

“Incomprehensible,” Swinburne agreed. “My hat! You appear to have finished your beer already, Mr. Harris. As have I. Shall we order another?”

“Sure, but what say you we get out of this place?” Harris said. “Never mix work with pleasure, that’s my motto. This place is work. Meetin’ you gents is a pleasure.”

“The Red Lion on Derby Street isn’t far from here,” Burton said. “Shall we?”

This was agreed, and the trio settled up at the bar, retrieved their hats, coats, and canes from the cloakroom, and exited into King Street.

The day had been cold and damp, with rain-heavy clouds filling the sky. Now the atmosphere was saturated with water—too thin to be classified as rain, too thick to qualify as mist. Street lamps flared, particles of their orange light seemingly borne aloft by the droplets and sent swirling around the three men as they passed along St. James’s Street and turned left into Pall Mall.

“I should very much enjoy hearing you speak again,” Burton said to Harris as they entered Whitehall. “I understand you’ll be addressing the League of Enochians Gentlemen’s Club tomorrow. Do you think I might attend?”

“Phew!” the American exclaimed. “If it was up to me, for sure, but the Enochians are an exclusive set, Burton, an’ as their guest, I ain’t got the right to invite another.”

“I understand.” Burton waited until a loudly clanking steam-horse had passed by, then went on, “May I ask how you were approached by them?”

“By the Enochians? I got a letter last May from a fella named Laurence Oliphant. An insightful guy—he’d seen the importance of my philosophy and wrote that he recognised me as the twelfth messenger of God.”

“Received in America in May,” Swinburne muttered. “So probably posted in March or thereabouts.”

“The Enochians’ president, Doctor Kenealy, then arranged for me to come here.”

They arrived at the Red Lion, found a corner table, and ordered more drinks.

For the next three hours, Burton plied Harris with alcohol and gave every indication that he was fast becoming an ardent admirer of the spiritualist, artfully hiding his true opinion that the man was a conceited—and only partially sane—nincompoop.

It was near midnight before Harris succumbed to the considerable amount he’d imbibed. Burton picked his moment, then asked, “What are the arrangements for tomorrow? Perhaps I could have dinner with you before you go to the Enochians’ Club?”

“’Fraid not. I have to meet a fella named Count Sobieski outside Saint Martin’s Church at eight o’clock. Gotta work on my presentation beforehand. Perhaps another night, though?”

“Very well,” Burton said, silently vowing to be at the church, too, unseen, ready to follow Harris to what he suspected was a secret entrance to the club.

He nudged Swinburne. “Are you still with us, Algy?”

“Yesh,” the poet slurred. “But I shushpect I might have had one too mummy—money—many.”

“We should get you home. You, too, Mr. Harris. It sounds as if you have a busy day ahead of you.”

They stood and fumbled with their coat buttons; picked up, dropped, and retrieved their hats; tripped over their canes; and stumbled out into the night.

As they emerged into Whitehall, Harris pointed at St. Stephen’s Tower and exclaimed, “Would ya look at that! The clouds are so low you can barely see the clock. Say, though, what’s the story? Ain’t that the famous Big Ben? I’ve not heard a chime all night.”

“The bell’s cracked,” Burton explained. “They made the hammer too big. I believe they’re currently adjusting the mechanism to strike the hour on the quarter bells while the main one’s repaired. It’s the second—” He cried out and whipped his hands up to his eyes, half-blinded by the flash that suddenly burst from the top of the tower. A thunderous detonation smacked against his ears. Peering past his fingers, he saw a ball of flame pushing bricks and masonry away from the edifice. Without thinking, he knocked his companions back into the shelter of Derby Street. Debris started to rain down around them; bricks and concrete thudding and shattering on the roads and smashing through windows; metal and glass clanging and clattering; pieces of flaming wood falling like comets. The noise pummelled them, jumbling their senses, then thick, black dust came at them like an avalanche, enveloping and blinding, filling their mouths and nostrils.

Half a brick ricocheted off the side of Harris’s head. The American slumped into Swinburne’s arms, his weight carrying the poet to the ground.

Burton crouched over them, trying to shield them with his body. Small fragments of stone thudded into his back and bounced all around. He pressed his palms to his ears but the cacophonous sound of destruction penetrated his skull, so harsh that he bellowed with the pain of it.

Finally, silence fell, only gradually giving way to individual sounds: screams; cries of alarm; shouts; police whistles; the rattle of small stones still raining down.

The explorer uncurled and stood, powder cascading off him. He coughed and spat.

“Are you hurt, Algy?”

“No, but you could pull this great lump off me.”

Burton lifted Harris from the poet and laid him on his back.

“Is he dead?” Swinburne asked.

“No. Knocked cold.”

“He’ll be disappointed. The Lily Queen might have been expecting him.”

“The angels will have to wait. Brush yourself down and help me carry him. We’ll take him to the Regency.”

They hoisted the American to his feet and got beneath his arms to support him. He was so limp he might as well have been boneless, and the difference in height between Burton and Swinburne, along with the poet’s inability to walk in a straight line, made the operation extremely awkward. However, they managed to drag him out onto Whitehall, where they stumbled to a halt and gazed in horror at the scene.

The top half of St. Stephen’s Tower had gone and what remained was a shattered and burning stump. Even from this distance, they could feel the heat of the flames. Black smoke and dust were billowing through the streets and debris was strewn everywhere. Fortunately, the lateness of the hour meant there were fewer people about than usual, but nevertheless many individuals could be seen staggering aimlessly, their faces slack with shock.

Burton and Swinburne half-carried, half-dragged Harris northward past the government buildings, then turned right into Whitehall Place in order to rest on the steps of the Royal Geographical Society. They watched policemen and detectives pouring out of Scotland Yard.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you know that gentleman? Is he badly hurt?”

Burton looked up to find a young, round-faced, and sandy-haired man standing beside him. “He’s a visiting American. Thomas Lake Harris. He’s out for the count but not badly wounded, as far as I can make out. Who are you, sir?”

“Detective Inspector Spearing.”

“Ah, then I suppose you’ve been following us? I know you were ordered to keep an eye on this fellow. It’s all right, Spearing—I’m Burton.”

“Oh, I see. Detective Inspector Trounce has told me all about you, of course. Can I be of assistance?”

Swinburne piped up, “You could tell us what the blazes has happened!”

“This is my colleague, Mr. Swinburne,” Burton explained.

“I have no idea, sir,” Spearing said. “They’ve been making repairs in the clock tower, but I can’t credit them with using anything capable of causing such a blast. What are you going to do with Mr. Harris?”

“We’re taking him back to the Regency Hotel.”

“You’ll need a ride. Here, let me lend a hand. We’ll take him through to the back of the Yard. You can commandeer a police vehicle.” Spearing paused, then said, “You won’t crash it, will you?”

“I appear to have gained a reputation,” Burton noted ruefully.

They lifted Harris and carried him across the road, treading carefully to avoid the scattered rubble.

“Through here,” Spearing said, leading them into a narrow alleyway.

At the back of the police headquarters, in a large courtyard lined with stable-like buildings, Spearing left them, entered one of the structures, and a few moments later steered out a steam-horse-drawn brougham. He jumped down from the driver’s seat. “I’d take you myself, sir, but I think it’s a case of all hands on deck at the Yard.”

“I quite understand. Help me get him into the cabin, would you?”

They lifted Harris into the vehicle. The detective pointed to an open gate and said, “That opens onto Northumberland Street.”

“Thank you, Spearing.”

The policeman saluted and hastened away.

Swinburne climbed in beside the American. Burton took the driver’s seat, gripped the tiller, and guided the machine out through the gate and to the left, in the direction of Trafalgar Square. It was slow going—there were lumps of masonry in the road and rapidly expanding crowds of people, all gathering to gaze at the destruction.

When they reached the square, Burton made to steer into the Mall, intending to follow it westward, but Swinburne thumped on the roof and screeched, “Stop! Hey, Richard, stop, I say!”

The explorer pulled over and the poet jumped out and scrambled up beside him.

“I’ve been looking at his face,” Swinburne said breathlessly, “and it’s given me an idea. Let’s take him to your place.”

“Why?” Burton asked, puzzled.

“Because his bone structure is similar to yours. With whitened skin, a false beard, and a few other cosmetic adjustments, you could pass yourself off as him.”

“You intend to hold Harris prisoner, Algy, while I go off to meet this Count Sobieski fellow?”

“Yes! Why not become the twelfth messenger of God?”

Burton considered the poet’s enthusiastic countenance.

“Just how drunk are you?”

“Hah! Considerably!” Swinburne smiled. “How else could I have come up with such a ridiculous scheme?”

“It is ridiculous,” Burton agreed. “And I rather like it.”

The sewer tunnels are constructed from brick and stone and range from six to twenty feet in diameter. The smaller of them are round in section, the larger egg-shaped, with the narrow end downward, which serves to increase the flow and prevent silt from building up. The main interceptor tunnels run from west to east. North-and-south-flowing sewers run into them, the waste being diverted away toward the mouth of the Thames, rather than flowing straight into it. Each tunnel is fitted with many iron sluice gates, some of massive proportions, which can be manually raised or lowered by means of geared mechanisms, and which are used to regulate the flow and, on occasion, to block it, so that sections of the tunnels can be inspected and, if necessary, repaired.

–FROM MR. BAZALGETTE’S UNDERGROUND MARVEL,

THE DAILY BUGLE

Burton leaned on his cane and snapped open his new pocket watch. His eyes lingered on the lock of Isabel’s hair before registering the time. Ten-past eight. Count Sobieski was late.

Earlier that afternoon—it was now Wednesday the 9th of November—Trounce had called again at Montagu Place, finding Swinburne already there with Burton and Levi. The detective inspector was dishevelled and tired, and grateful for a brandy and water. “Seven killed last night and more than a hundred injured. It was a bomb. A big one, too. Three hours after it went off, a chap walked into the offices of the Daily Bugle, introduced himself to the night editor as Vincent Sneed—thirty-two years old, a chimney sweep—and made a full confession. He recently cleaned the flues at the Whitechapel Bell Foundry, where Big Ben was cast, and stole a spare set of tower keys from there.”

“But his motive?” Burton asked. “Why commit such an atrocity?”

Trounce had pulled a notebook from his pocket, extracted a sheet of paper from it, and passed it to the explorer. “The statement he made to the newspaper man.”

Burton read it, handed it to Swinburne, and said, “They don’t strike me as the words of a sweep.”

“I thought the same,” Trounce muttered.

“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “What could possibly warrant such an outpouring of hatred? Smash the German Alliance? Hang Prince Albert as a traitor? Assassinate Bismarck?”

“That last is an oddity in itself,” Burton observed. “Bismarck is out of the picture. Why include him?”

“Why any of it at all?” Trounce asked. “According to Sneed’s apprentice—a lad named William Cornish—the man has never once before expressed a political opinion.”

“Has he said anything more?”

Trounce took up his bowler from beside the chair and punched it in frustration. “That’s the problem. He can’t. He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Inexplicably. We put him in a cell, intending to question him this morning, but at dawn he simply stopped breathing. The coroner was unable to identify the cause.”

Eliphas Levi exclaimed, “Mon Dieu! Où est le cadavre maintenant?”

“Eh?”

“The corpse,” Burton translated. “Where is it?”

“In the mortuary.”

The explorer and occultist exchanged a glance.

“Trounce,” Burton said, after a momentary pause, “I have to use my authority to issue you with a direct order.”

“On the basis of that statement, should I expect an unusual one?”

“Yes. Take Monsieur Levi to the mortuary and do exactly as he tells you. It’s probable that Sneed is strigoi morti. He may have been acting under the spell of Perdurabo.”

“I find it hard to believe any of this.”

Levi murmured, “I show you. You will believe.”

“Think of it as a disease,” Burton advised. “John Judge carried it aboard the ship from Fernando Po. If Sneed has been infected, as I suspect he has, he’ll appear to die in daylight but will rise at night. While active, he’ll be highly infectious.”

Trounce scratched his chin. “Then Perdurabo, in the body of Thomas Honesty, is hiding out among the anti-German activists in the Cauldron? Infecting them? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“It is. Or, at very least, he’s made of the district a hunting ground. Tonight, Levi will accompany you to the East End. Take young Bram, too, but keep him away from any trouble. The Whisperers have a strong presence in the Cauldron—there are more street Arabs there than anywhere else in the city. Use Bram to collect information from the district. Look for signs of the un-dead.” He turned to the Frenchman. “You will advise, monsieur?”