Текст книги "The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“Oui. We find them and do what must be done.”

Burton said to Trounce, “Come with me.”

They went upstairs to the room where Burton’s half-unpacked African crates were stored. Thomas Lake Harris was bound to a chair in the middle of it with his head bandaged and a gag in his mouth.

“What the blazes?” Trounce cried out. “Who’s this? What are you playing at?”

“It’s Mr. Harris, the American spiritualist Detective Inspector Spearing has been following. He’s due to give a lecture at the Enochians’ Club tonight. I intend to masquerade as him and go in his stead.”

“But—but—by Jove! Is he one of them? Has he done anything wrong?”

“Nothing, unless you count his incessant spouting of sheer nonsense.”

“But you can’t keep him here like that! Hell’s bells! I know the king gave you special dispensation, but this is indefensible.”

“The security of the Empire is at stake.”

Trounce pointed at the prisoner. “From him?”

“No.”

“Then you have to let him go.”

“It would be better if you took him into police custody for the night. It’s for his own protection—he’s in danger of associating with bad people.”

“By the looks of it, he’s already done so.”

“I didn’t thump him over the head, Trounce, he was hit by a falling brick. As for his current incarceration, it inconveniences him, that’s all. It’s necessary.”

“Humph! I’ll put him in a police cell, but I don’t approve of this. The law is the law. You have to realise where the boundaries lie.”

“Need I remind you of our first encounter? You adopted a false name and assaulted me in an alleyway. Hardly legal, I’d venture.”

“I judged it a necessary ploy.”

“As I do this.”

With that, Trounce had departed, accompanied by Levi and a very verbosely indignant Thomas Lake Harris, whose last words to Burton were, “You’d better pray the Lily Queen never gets her hands on you, you goddam snake in the grass!”

Burton spent the next few hours applying makeup and false hair, transforming himself into a convincing approximation of the American. He and Swinburne then rode his velocipedes to Upper St. Martin’s Lane, where the poet was now waiting for Burton in the Queen’s Arms.

Outside the church, Burton put away his timepiece and gazed at a litter-crab as it lumbered past. The already bad weather was worsening and rain was starting to fall again, the water steaming from the machine’s humped back.

Trafalgar Square was congested with traffic. The din was such that he initially failed to hear the individual who stopped behind him and said, “Mr. Harris?” The man reached up and tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Harris?”

Burton turned to see a short, ferrety fellow, whose lack of teeth caused his bearded chin to be much closer to his nose than was natural.

“Yes. You are Count Sobieski?”

The man bowed. He didn’t look like a count. His clothes were baggy and unwashed. He smelled bad. His breath reeked of stale gin.

In a Russian-accented voice, he said, “Follow me, please.”

He led Burton toward the Strand but turned left before reaching it and plunged into the network of narrow streets and alleys behind the eastern side of St. Martin’s Lane. They turned left, right, left, and right again, then stopped at a gate. Sobieski pushed it open, crossed a yard, and unlocked the back door of one of the shops lining the main street. Burton followed his guide inside, to the end of a short corridor, and through another door into a workshop. There was a large safe in one corner and a number of workbenches, all scattered with tools. He recognised the place instantly, and a mystery was solved. He was in Brundleweed’s jewellery shop. Plainly, the old man was either captive or done away with.

With difficulty, Burton pushed the thought of his engagement ring aside. He couldn’t allow the pain it brought with it.

“This way,” Sobieski murmured. He opened a door and descended a narrow staircase, emerging into a mildewed basement, empty but for broken packing crates, a rusty iron bedstead, and an old chest of drawers. The far wall had a hole cut into it. There was a dark passage beyond.

Burton’s heart began to thud.

Bismillah! Must I venture underground again?

The Russian lifted an oil lamp from the chest of drawers, lit it, and stepped through the ragged gap. The explorer trailed after him and said, in an American accent, “Say, Count, this is a mighty strange tour you’re takin’ me on. What’s the game?”

“Just a little patience, please, Mr. Harris,” Sobieski replied. “This is a secret route into the clubhouse. All will be explained when we get there. Not far to go now.”

The passage was short. It opened into the side of a clay-walled tunnel through which one of London’s many subterranean rivers flowed, its brown surface heaving and frothing as it sped past.

They went to the right and carefully shuffled along an outward-thrusting shelf, moving upstream. It was slippery, and Burton, using his swordstick for balance, imagined himself sliding from it into the water and being carried into darkness. His corpse, he supposed, would be ejected into the Thames, which—now that he considered it—wasn’t very far away.

They hadn’t gone far before the damp chill permeated the explorer’s bones. His left forearm started to ache.

The lamplight slid over the clay walls. Parts of the roof had been shored up with wooden struts. Their shadows swung disconcertingly beneath the illumination, giving the impression that the tunnel was slowly collapsing. Burton paused and closed his eyes, trying to control his shaking.

Sobieski had stopped just ahead, at the foot of a ladder. He looked back, said, “Come,” and started up it.

Burton’s respiration was rapid and shallow, hissing unsteadily through his teeth. He straightened, opened his eyes, cursed himself, and followed.

The count pushed open a trapdoor and disappeared through it.

Quickly, Burton ascended. He crawled thankfully out into a room furnished with coat-, hat-, and umbrella stands, plus rough mats and stiff-haired brushes. Taking the cue from his companion, he used the latter to clean the mud from his boots.

“I’ll take you to Doctor Kenealy, sir.”

Sobieski opened a door and ushered the explorer through, across a wood-panelled hallway, and into a plushly appointed sitting room.

Two men got up from leather armchairs and faced the newcomers.

“Thank you, Count,” one of them said. “The others are awaiting you in the temple chamber.”

Sobieski left the room, closing the door after him.

“We’re honoured to have you with us, Mr. Harris. Come, sit. I am Doctor Edward Hyde Kenealy, president of the League of Enochians. This is my advisor, Mr. John Dee.”

Dee be damned! Damien Burke, more like!

“I’m mighty glad to be here, gents,” Burton said, continuing to imitate Harris’s accent. He shook the proffered hands, sat in the indicated chair, and nodded when Burke offered him a glass of red wine.

“I trust you’re enjoying your visit to London,” Kenealy said.

“I’d sure like it more if the rain stopped fallin’.”

Kenealy smiled. He had a wide face outlined by an enormous bush of dark hair which curled down into a shaggy beard. His upper lip was clean-shaven, his nose flat, his small eyes half-concealed by round pebble-like spectacles.

“The tears of the angels, Mr. Harris. They weep for the civilised world.”

“They lament the rise of evil men,” Burke added, “don’t you agree, Mr. Harris?”

“Well now,” Burton drawled, “I don’t know nothin’ about that. What men do you mean?”

“The ones who believe that Europe should cower in the face of Germanic ambition, sir,” Kenealy said. “The men who promote appeasement and cooperation, blind to the danger.”

Burton took a sip of wine. He saw fanaticism in Kenealy’s eyes, ruthlessness in Burke’s.

“Danger?”

Kenealy leaned back in his seat, crossed his legs, steepled his fingers, and said, “A discussion for later, Mr. Harris. First, I have a confession to make. We have brought you here under false pretences.”

Burton was inclined to raise an eyebrow, but both of them being false, decided not to risk it, and instead said, “How so? You’ll still want to hear my presentation on the invoking of angels?”

“As a matter of fact,” Kenealy responded, “we Enochians are already very proficient at summoning. We have regular communication with an angel named Perdurabo, who has taken a great interest in your work, sir, and now wishes to address you directly.”

Burton gripped the arms of his seat, giving every indication of barely suppressed excitement. “That’s real interestin’. This Perdurabo asked specifically to speak with me, you say?”

“Yes, Mr. Harris, which is why we’re inviting you to join us in a summoning ritual. No doubt you noticed that the person who escorted you here, Count Sobieski, is, shall we say, not the most sophisticated of men. He does, however, possess one redeeming quality, it being that when he’s under the influence of certain drugs, he becomes a powerful medium. Channelling Perdurabo is too stressful for most—it can cause the heart to burst—but in Sobieski we have a strong vessel through which the angel can speak for a prolonged period.”

“About what?” Burton asked. “Have you received information about Lilistan?”

“Lilistan?”

“Sure! The interspace between the planets, sir, where the angels dwell.”

“Ah, I see. Perhaps Perdurabo has reserved such revelations for you alone.”

Damien Burke said, “Are you willing to join us for the ritual, Mr. Harris?”

“Mr. Dee, I sure am. Yes, sir!”

Burke stood and bowed, “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and prepare the chamber.”

Burton watched the man leave and wondered what had happened to Gregory Hare. Had he survived the collision on the outskirts of Downe Village? It was difficult to imagine so.

“Will you tell me somethin’ about your organisation, Mr. Kenealy?” he asked. “Its history?”

“Certainly. The Marquess of Waterford founded it in 1841, three years or so after an angel visited him in the grounds of his estate. The marquess came to believe that angels hold the key to the advancement of mankind.”

“Advancement? In what way?”

“Spiritually, Mr. Harris. Beresford—the marquess’s name was Henry Beresford—didn’t regard angels as messengers of God. In fact, he regarded the belief in God as a repudiation of responsibility. The human race, he said, should be accountable only to itself. It should feel shame for its many mistakes and pride for its many achievements, abandoning the notion of an unknowable divine plan, to which these things are so often attributed. As for religion, he wanted it dismantled, for it is nothing but a primitive form of politics, enabling an elite minority to control and feed off the masses.”

“This Beresford fella sounds like an astute guy, but what did he think angels are, then?”

“The liberated spirits of humans, sir. He attempted to make the Enochians the seed of a movement he named ‘Libertarianism.’ This had as its basis the philosophies of the Marquis de Sade, which he perceived as the means through which we can cast off the church-imposed moralities that quash the natural expansiveness of the human spirit. We don’t require a supreme deity, he proposed, because we ourselves, like the angel he saw, can become godlike.”

“You say ‘attempted’? So he didn’t succeed?”

“He didn’t. It went wrong about ten years ago, when Beresford tried to recruit a group of influential artists led by a man named Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Rossetti rejected his philosophy and instead formed the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, which went on to produce many paintings linking human dignity with Christian religious themes—a direct challenge to Beresford’s ideas. Rossetti was then made the government’s minister of arts and culture. From that position, he was able to influence the Home Office, instigating the repression of Libertine activity. Many Enochians were arrested on charges ranging from lewd behaviour to being drunk and disorderly, but the biggest loss was that of Mr. Francis Galton.”

“Who’s he?” Burton asked.

“A scientist. He joined the Enochians early in ’forty-four and immediately shook things up by introducing to Beresford the idea that angels—he designated the species Supreme Man—must develop at some point in future history, and if they are godlike in their abilities, then they should be able to penetrate the barrier of time, if not physically then certainly mentally. Beresford had long been fascinated by the works of the sixteenth-century occultist John Dee—”

“Dee?” Burton interrupted. “The same name as the gent who just left us?”

“Yes, Mr. Harris. I often wonder whether such coincidences indicate some deep pattern in the substance of time, don’t you? Anyway, as I was saying, the marquess was already well versed in the theories of Dee, who was much obsessed with the summoning of angels, and so responded with great enthusiasm when Galton suggested that angels could communicate from the future. This idea provided a new impetus for the Enochians, and the art of summoning became its primary focus. Indeed, very quickly, the club achieved its first contact with Perdurabo, who, via a mediumistically talented member, instructed Galton in great detail with regard to a new science called Eugenics. This, it was hoped, would give Galton the means to artificially hasten the transformation of man into Supreme Man. Unfortunately, disaster followed. The medium suffered heart failure, and there was no one strong enough to channel Perdurabo again, so Galton was forced to proceed without further assistance from him. The experiments went wrong, Eugenics was banned by the government, and the experience caused Galton to lose his sanity.”

Burton adjusted his face into an expression of concern and confusion. “Hold on there! Are you sayin’ that my knowledge of the interplanetary realm is nothin’ but hogwash? That angels ain’t the supernatural beings I take ’em for?”

Kenealy made a calming gesture and smiled. “Not necessarily, sir. It might well be that you have insight into the nature—or perhaps I should say, super-nature—of future humans.”

Burton said, “I guess. So what happened?”

“After Galton? Not a great deal, unfortunately. From the mid ’forties, the Enochians lacked a medium strong enough to summon Perdurabo—or any other entity, for that matter. There was no progress until the start of this year, when I was approached by Mr. Dee and his companion, Mr. Kelley, who had with them Count Sobieski. They informed me that someone wanted to communicate with me from the Afterlife. I consented to a séance, during which Perdurabo took possession of the count. He revealed his true nature—not a spirit from Beyond but, as Galton had suggested, a being from the future—and told me Henry Beresford’s time on Earth was nearly done and that I should move to take over the running of the League of Enochians. New and influential members would join to support me, he said. Well, I was a lawyer at the time, Mr. Harris, and my career was in tatters after my decision to defend the poisoner William Palmer, in which undertaking I’d failed miserably, so I was very much enthused by this new opportunity. During January and February I started to wrest control of the Enochians from Beresford, and in March was greatly assisted by a man named Laurence Oliphant, who is Lord Elgin’s private secretary. Oliphant’s interest in summoning was inspired by your work, sir, which is how I became aware of you and the enormous contribution you might make to our cause. On the evening of the twenty-eighth of March, Dee, Kelley, Oliphant, Sobieski, and I conducted a séance during which Perdurabo again possessed the count. He informed us that the marquess would die on the morrow and we must now prepare for an undertaking of inordinate significance, upon which humanity depended. He then asked for private audiences, first with Dee and Kelley, then with Oliphant, and finally with me. During mine, he informed me that each of us was being set a task, which we must not discuss with each other. My own was the simplest: I was to close the Enochians to further membership, establish a secret route into the clubhouse, prevent intruders from entering, and follow whatever instructions Dee and Kelley issued. For this, he said, I would be amply rewarded.”

“Incredible!” Burton exclaimed. “Such specific communication with a supernatural being is far beyond what I’ve experienced. They’ve come to me in dreams and imaginings but—phewee!—never in the flesh, so to speak.”

“Tonight, sir, we intend to remedy that. Tonight, Perdurabo will address you directly, if you are willing.”

Burton picked up his wine glass and drained it. “For sure!” he cried out. “For sure! But, say, did it happen? Did the marquess kick the bucket the next day?”

“He did. He fell from his horse and broke his neck.”

The door opened and Damien Burke stepped in. He said, “It’s all prepared.”

Kenealy stood. “I hope you’ll forgive my deception, Mr. Harris. I feel positive your presentation would have fascinated us all, but I trust the experience we offer you instead will prove more edifying even than the applause of an admiring audience.”

“Tactfully put, Mr. Kenealy,” Burton said as he got to his feet. “You have in me an eager subject.”

“Then let us go at once to the temple chamber.”

Kenealy and “Dee” conducted Burton out of the room and along a hallway. It was hung with paintings, all depicting the manifestation of angels.

They came to double doors, which Dee pushed open to reveal a large square room hung with purple drapes into which sigils had been embroidered with silver thread. A circular table stood at its centre, with twenty-four chairs arranged around it, twenty-one of them occupied by men dressed in white robes. Burton noted that Sobieski held a position of prominence, his chair being throne-like and raised higher than the rest. Kenealy instructed Burton to take an empty seat directly opposite the medium. He and Burke then sat to either side of the count.

As he settled, Burton examined the tabletop, which was inset with a silver pentagram with a border of engraved Enochian letters. Seven candles were arranged in a circle in the middle of the pentagram. Inside them, an extremely complex symbol had been painted—using what appeared to be beeswax—around the base of a large crystal ball.

Kenealy clicked his fingers. A man stood and moved around the chamber extinguishing the lamps until the only illumination was that provided by the candles. He returned to his seat.

Gesturing toward the crystal ball, in which the beeswax symbol was peculiarly reflected, Kenealy said, “Please devote your attention to the Sigillum dei Aemeth, Mr. Harris. You must fixate on the speculum, for through it Perdurabo will show you visions of the future; of what must be if we fail in our great cause.”

Burton gazed at the glass ball. The twisting and distorted lines of the symbol—the Sigillum dei Aemeth, as Kenealy had called it—confused his eyes, and the more he looked, the more aware he became that they were somehow pushing him into a trance-like state. He allowed it to happen, but at the same time devoted part of his mind to a Sufi exercise, establishing a “fenced-off” segment of consciousness, which, he hoped, would be resistant to external influence.

Count Sobieski said, “It begins. It is fast tonight. Perdurabo is eager to speak. Geh londoh mica olz busd gohed.”

The assembly chanted, “Exarpe, bit to em, he co ma, na en ta.”

The hairs at the back of Burton’s neck stood on end. The temperature suddenly dropped and the atmosphere of the room prickled his skin.

The men to either side of Burton took hold of his hands. All around the table, the Enochians formed a chain in this manner.

Damien Burke said, “Ra asa i Raphael.”

Kenealy said, “Sobo el i Gabriel.”

The man to Burton’s left leaned close to him and whispered, “Pronounce aloud: Baba ge i Michael.”

Burton did as he was told. “Baba ge i Michael.”

Sobieski jerked in his seat and his head lolled forward. He murmured, “Od luca el i Perdurabo.”

The gathering intoned, “Mi cama, un al, i alpo re, o i veae, dasa ta, bia he, asa peta, ta!”

Burton felt the reassuring presence of the pistol in his waistband.

The count loosed a long groan. He slowly raised his head. His eyes glinted in the candlelight. They were black from edge to edge.

“Faithful,” he said, “I give you my thanks. Much has already been achieved.”

The voice was as Burton had heard twice before, glutinous and comprised of innumerable but perfectly concerted parts.

“The great work has commenced,” Perdurabo said. “The flow of events is being adjusted and corrected in preparation for my incarnation in corporeal form and your ascendance to a new mode of existence.”

Sobieski’s dreadful eyes settled on Burton. “You are the American, Thomas Lake Harris?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m most gratified by your presence. I have a special place reserved for you in the new world that is to come, Mr. Harris. You will occupy a position of honour and influence. You shall be as a king among your brethren. Look into the shew-stone, please, that I might unveil to you that which we work to avoid.”

Burton turned his attention back to the crystal ball. The lines and shapes within it moved as the candles flickered. He felt himself drawn in and didn’t resist, though he was careful to strengthen the part of his mind he’d separated. Gradually, the confusion of angles and surfaces coalesced around him, until he felt himself embedded in the midst of a vision.

“Africa,” Perdurabo said. “Mr. Harris, a war of indescribable ferocity is coming, and this is where it will end.”

Incongruously, amid the rolling savannahs that were unveiled in Burton’s mind, a city sprawled; a metropolis of British character, spread out in the shadow of a tall green-topped column of rock. Burton recognised the geological structure immediately. It marked the position of Kazeh, the Arabian outpost where the Orpheus had taken on supplies before flying east to Zanzibar. But the city? That most certainly hadn’t been there.

“Tabora,” Perdurabo said. “The last bastion of the British Empire. You are looking at the future, Mr. Harris, the year 1918. The final days of a war that will grow out of unbridled German ambition.”

Burton observed a vast ring of cannons—many of them poking out of heavily armoured vehicles—surrounding the city and bombarding it relentlessly. Refugees were fleeing in droves, thousands being brutally cut down by relentless gunfire. Burton saw men, women, and children falling.

“Death,” Perdurabo said. “Nothing but death. Here comes the final blow.”

The vision swung dizzyingly around Burton until he was looking into the sky. There was something there—a machine or creature? He couldn’t tell. It bore some similarity to a dirigible but also to a gigantic pea pod, with a tulip-like flower pulsating at one end, driving it along.

“A weapon of such terrible potency that it will obliterate the last vestiges of the British—a demise which has been, in this future, long overdue. It is the consequence of mistakes made in the present.”

The perspective changed. Burton watched as a gigantic steam sphere powered out of Tabora. He saw on its side the name SS Britannia. Behind it, a blinding white flash suddenly burst from the city. When the glare receded, it revealed an ugly yellow cloud boiling into the atmosphere.

“There are many possible futures,” Perdurabo said, “but the war comes in all of them. Generations are annihilated, and we have only ourselves to blame.”

The cloud, billowing into the shape of a vast mushroom, fell away into the distance and was lost from view as the vision followed the escaping steam sphere.

“Your own country will suffer, too, of that you can be sure. The German Empire will become greedy for America’s many resources. I have shown you the end of the British Empire. America will be next.”

The scene blurred and reshaped itself. Now the SS Britannia was lying motionless and damaged on the floor of a wide shallow crater.

The Pico Santa Isabel. Fernando Po.

The steam sphere wavered, became a transparent globe of shifting colours, and was suddenly a crystal ball, on a table, with a complex symbol reflected in it.

Burton looked up at Count Sobieski. Perdurabo addressed him through the Russian’s toothless mouth.

“The future you have just witnessed is disastrous not only for our countries, but for the human race. It will set back our natural development and long delay the emergence of individuals like myself—a new species that has dominion over nature and even time itself. It is of utmost importance, therefore, that we alter the present in order to avoid its catastrophic consequences. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” Burton said.

“Very good. As I am sure you are aware, the British government is about to enter into an alliance with a newly formed Central German Confederation. This will give the Germanic states a new cohesion and the means to create a powerful manufacturing base. The seed of German expansionism is being planted right now. We can’t allow it. The Germans must be weakened, not strengthened.”

Burton was aware of an acute mesmeric influence needling into his consciousness. He didn’t resist, but retreated into the protected area of his mind, and from there said, “I can’t doubt what you say. Hell, when a man sees something like that with his own eyes, he ain’t gonna sit back an’ do nothin’.”

“Then you’ll join our crusade against this abomination? You’ll undertake a task for us, one that will save your country from the horror you’ve just witnessed?”

“For sure.”

“Good, Mr. Harris! Very good! Your task is a simple one. Are you aware of a man named Abraham Lincoln?”

“Yup! Who isn’t?”

“A year from now he will be elected as president of your country. His opposition to slavery will cause the Southern states to rebel and plunge America into a bloody civil war. The British Empire can ill-afford a potential ally to be so distracted. Thus we have to reshape history. The conflict must be avoided so America is free to join us in an incisive attack on Germany. There is only one way to achieve this, Mr. Harris, and you are the key.”

Perdurabo paused. His black eyes glittered.

Burton said, “Tell me what to do.”

“You must return to America at once and shoot Abraham Lincoln dead.”

“I had during the fever-fit, and often for hours afterwards, a queer conviction of divided identity, never ceasing to be two persons that generally thwarted and opposed each other.”

–RICHARD F. BURTON, THE LAKE REGIONS OF CENTRAL AFRICA

Burton was led out of the League of Enochians Gentlemen’s Club by the same route through which he’d entered, guided by a man named Doyle, who ducked back into Brundleweed’s without having uttered a single word.

The explorer could feel the aftermath of Perdurabo’s mesmeric influence and was strongly inclined to book passage to America, there to assassinate Abraham Lincoln.

He liberated the enclosed portion of his mind. It flooded into the rest and drowned the insistent suggestion. Lincoln would be safe from him, and from Thomas Lake Harris, too.

It was half-past midnight by the time the explorer met Swinburne outside the Queen’s Arms. The pub had just closed and the poet was leaning against a lamppost, careless of the rain that was pattering on and around him, quietly reciting poetry to himself. The velocipedes were standing at the side of the road.

He looked up as the explorer approached. “Hallo! Hallo! You’re still in one piece, then? Was it worth it?”

“Most definitely. Are you sober?”

“Horribly. It’s a thoroughly objectionable state. What next?”

“How awake are you? We haven’t had much sleep recently.”

“Wide.”

“To Battersea Power Station, then. I have the measure of our enemy. Let us now meet our mysterious ally, if that he be.”

“Rather!” Swinburne enthused.

They mounted their vehicles, started the engines, and went rattling down St. Martin’s Lane. The streets were mostly empty and quiet but for the hiss of rain, so they rode side by side while Burton described what had occurred in the club.

“You have to warn Disraeli,” Swinburne said. “The signing ceremony is not even two days hence, and is surely Perdurabo’s target. The entirety of the British and German governments will be gathered in Green Park. The royal families, too. He could kill them all in one fell swoop.”

“How, though?” Burton pondered. “The event will be wrapped in the tightest security possible. Even if he has an army of assassins at his disposal, they’d never get past the guards, and the Orpheus will be hovering over the park, too, bristling with her new guns.”

Crossing Trafalgar Square, they steered into Whitehall and parked their penny-farthings. While Swinburne guarded them, Burton entered Scotland Yard. Pepperwick was off duty and had been replaced by the night clerk. The man examined the explorer’s authorization then said, “Can I help you, sir?”

“Are Detective Inspectors Trounce or Slaughter on duty?”

“All our officers are on extended duty tonight due to the unrest in the East End, but I think I saw Detective Inspector Slaughter come in a few minutes ago. Hold on a minute.”

He turned to the speaking tubes, selected the one connected to Room 14, and through it confirmed Slaughter’s presence.

“Go right up, sir.”

Burton found Slaughter in his office nursing a pint of milk. His clothes were dirty, his jacket sleeve torn, and a large bruise marked the left side of his forehead.

“Bloody chaos!” the policeman announced as the explorer entered. “The Cauldron is boiling over. Half the population is frightened out of its wits and fleeing north into Hackney, and the other half is ranting about Germanic perfidy and pushing westward into the city, apparently intent on smashing its way to parliament. We’re trying to hold them back but they’re like wild animals.”

“The League of Enochians Gentlemen’s Club is at the root of it,” Burton said.

“So Trounce told me. Can’t we raid the place?”

“You can. Have your men knock down the doors. You’ll find an underground tunnel connecting the club to the basement of the Brundleweed jewellery shop, so be sure to go in that way, too. Arrest them all.”

“By George!” Slaughter exclaimed. “If we can stop ’em from fanning the flames, that’ll be something. I’ll organize it at once. We’ll have the Enochians behind bars before the night is done.”