Текст книги "The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

The explorer felt for his pistol and wasn’t surprised to find it gone. “Unarmed,” he muttered. “But I still have these.” He glanced up, saw that Crowley, Galton, and Darwin were examining a piece of equipment, and pulled the lock-picks from his pocket. “Keep your eyes on that opening, Algy. Maybe we can join Bhatti and Krishnamurthy in a concerted attack.”

He set to work on the padlock.

“Now would be a good time,” Swinburne murmured, “while neither Burke nor Hare are here.”

Focused on his task, Burton asked, “What are our captors up to?”

“They’re fitting some sort of device to their creation’s head. Like a crown but with wires extending from it and connected to an ugly metal contraption. By George! They need to let William Morris loose on all this machinery. It’s hideously utilitarian.”

Burton felt the ground vibrate beneath his feet again. He heard a distant roar.

“The instruments are measuring the storm,” Swinburne observed. “Dials and lights are responding to every crack of thunder.”

“This weather is no more natural than that which gripped the Royal Charter,” Burton noted. “The science of the future has given Crowley mediumistic control of atmospheric conditions.”

“That seems more like magic.”

“So does any science before one understands it.”

The padlock clicked.

“Ah! Bingo!”

He looked up and saw Francis Galton adjust something on the crown-like apparatus before moving over to a sparking and hissing stack of metal disks.

“Burton,” Crowley called. “Pay attention. In a few moments you’ll witness the advent of a new species of human. I have referred to him as Supreme Man, but I think perhaps there’s a better designation.”

“Supercilious Man?” Swinburne suggested.

“You’re beginning to irritate me, Mr. Swinburne.”

“I do hope so.”

“Trans-Temporal Man!” Crowley announced. “Let him be born! Do it now, if you please, Mr. Galton.”

Galton took hold of a lever and pulled it. Burton and Swinburne raised their hands before their faces as the catacomb was suddenly filled with lightning. Electricity leaped from machine to machine, snapping and cracking, spitting and hissing; so bright they could see it even through their eyelids. Bolt after bolt arced into the crown, and the figure beneath it jerked and spasmed in its restraints.

For thirty seconds, they were blinded and deafened by the din, and their skin crawled as the air itself was filled with static. Then, rapidly, the tumult subsided and as Burton unshielded his eyes there came a final flash, which momentarily illuminated the mouth of the hole in the wall, revealing the faces of Bhatti and Krishnamurthy.

The two men ducked back out of sight.

“Prepare yourself,” Burton whispered to Swinburne. “On my word, we’ll rush out and cause as much damage as possible.”

“It breathes!” Crowley cried out. “It breathes! See, Burton—I have made a new life!”

Through the bars of the gate, the explorer examined Crowley’s creation. Its wide chest was rising and falling in steady respiration.

“Lister!” Crowley barked. “Examine it! Examine it, man!”

A young fellow, remarkable for his high forehead and bushy sideburns, stepped into view. He listened with a trumpet-shaped stethoscope to the tall figure’s heart, took its pulse, then pressed an instrument to the side of its head and pushed a button. The artificial man groaned, then became still as Lister stepped away.

“It’s ready,” he said.

Crowley nodded his satisfaction. He stepped to the throne and stood face to face with his creation. Putting his hands to either side of its head, he used his thumbs to push open its eyelids, revealing the black eyeballs beneath. He gazed into them and said to one of the Enochians, “This will take a few minutes. Do not disturb me. When the transfer is complete, this body I currently inhabit will collapse. Imprison it. I intend to make Thomas Honesty suffer for all the trouble he’s given me.”

He became silent and motionless.

Lister, Darwin, Galton, Sister Raghavendra, and the Enochians stood back and watched, oblivious to all but Crowley.

“Quietly,” Burton hissed. “We’ll move around behind them. Grab something to clock the Enochians over the head with.”

He eased open the gate and slipped out into the passage. Swinburne followed. Bhatti and Krishnamurthy cautiously emerged from the burrow at the other end of the catacomb. They’d obviously watched and waited for Burton to make the first move. He signalled to them to keep to the right, where they wouldn’t be seen unless someone turned around.

The explorer inched past a quietly buzzing metal structure, squatted, and put up a hand to signal Krishnamurthy to halt. The young Indian nodded, then looked horrified, raised his pistol, pointed it at Burton, and fired. The report was tremendous in the enclosed space. Burton felt the bullet brush past his ear and thud into something behind him. He turned. Hare loomed over him. Swinburne hollered as a ten-fingered hand clamped his forearm, yanked him into the air, and hurled him spinning into a wall. Burton dived toward a length of pipe he saw on a workbench, intending to employ it as a cudgel. Hare’s great weight thumped down onto him before he reached it. He was aware of shouts and screams. More shots resounded through the chamber. A stone surface slammed into his face. He was flung upward, hit the ceiling hard, and dropped onto a table. It collapsed beneath him. Tools clanged across the floor. Burton tried to rise but the heel of a foot smashed into the side of his face. He went down again, felt himself lifted, and was enveloped in a crushing embrace.

Through blurring eyes, he saw Thomas Honesty fall back from the throne and collapse to the floor; saw the Enochians drawing pistols; saw everyone scattering for cover. Reports rent the air as guns fired.

Burton felt himself turned and forced down, back first, onto a knotted limb. His spine was bent to its limit then pushed beyond it. Pain flared. With his one free hand he punched, grabbed, and clawed, but to no effect. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

The agony increased. His vertebrae crunched. Darkness narrowed his vision as if he were sinking into a well.

He groped for his jacket pocket, found the opening, slipped his fingers into it, and retrieved the lock-pick.

Momentarily, there was nothing, then Burton’s senses returned as he sprawled backward onto the floor, felt a tremendous release, and looked up at the bellowing and thrashing monstrosity standing over him. The lock-pick was deeply embedded in one of Hare’s many eyes.

The explorer rolled out of reach and tried to take measure of the chaos around him. Swinburne was nearby, grappling with Francis Galton, the two men rolling on the floor, screaming and shouting as they punched and wrestled.

One of the Enochians was down with a bullet in his shoulder, but two more men, who’d been working in one of the side tunnels, had raced out and were taking pot-shots at Bhatti and Krishnamurthy, pinning them in a corner behind a barrel-shaped contraption.

Crowley’s mesmerised captives clung to the ground, making themselves as small as possible. Sadhvi Raghavendra was nearby, crouching beside a thick column of bundled cables. Burton crawled toward her. Bullets ricocheted around him.

The Trans-Temporal Man opened his jet-black eyes. He turned his head and shouted at one of the Enochians, “Get over here and unstrap me. At once!”

“Sadhvi!” Burton called. He put his hand to the side of her jaw and turned her face until she was looking dazedly at him. “Break loose! Don’t let him control you.”

The explorer radiated mesmeric authority. It was a technique he’d practised many times, attempting to dominate and influence through the eyes alone—but he’d only ever succeeded with it after preparation and in silent and calm environments. How could it possibly be effective in the midst of a pitched battle?

“Feel his presence in your mind,” he shouted above the din, “and step aside from it. Step aside, Sadhvi. He has no control over you.”

She frowned and blinked in confusion. All of a sudden, she and the column and the wall behind it jerked away from Burton and rapidly receded. For an instant, his disoriented mind struggled to comprehend what was happening, then he realised something was gripping his ankle and dragging him away from her. He snatched at a table leg. The furniture overturned, sending short lengths of pipe clanking onto the flagstones. He grabbed one, rolled onto his back, and used it to club Gregory Hare. The creature’s hold loosened. Burton kicked himself free, staggered to his feet, reversed the pipe in his grip, and holding it at one end with both hands, stabbed it downward into to misshapen mass of Hare’s body. It pierced the mottled skin and sank into flesh. Hare emitted an ear-splitting noise, like the whistle of a locomotive, and shoved Burton away, sending him reeling into a workbench.

Swinburne kicked free of Galton, charged at the thrashing creature, and launched himself into the air, landing amid the flailing limbs and applying his full weight to the pipe. It sank deeper. Blood fountained from its end.

Krishnamurthy bellowed across the chamber, “Get away from it, Swinburne!”

Before the poet could oblige, a knotted fist caught him on the point of the chin. His head snapped back and he toppled to the floor, skidding across it, leaving a smear of Hare’s blood behind him.

Krishnamurthy immediately jumped from cover and loosed a volley of shots. Burton, on his knees, felt the bullets drilling through the air above him and heard them thump into Hare’s body.

Hare shrieked and tumbled backward.

The explorer yelled, “Straight to hell with you, Gregory Hare!”

Beyond the floundering creature, Damien Burke stepped into view, having returned from the Dissenters’ Church. He calmly took in the scene, pulled the odd-looking cactus pistol from his pocket, and shot a spine into Swinburne, who was struggling to his feet. The poet sagged back to the flagstones.

Burke turned his attention to Burton. The explorer scrabbled away from him but felt a sharp pain in the side of his neck. He reached up and plucked a spine from it. His senses began to swim. He sagged onto his side and, with dimming vision, watched as one of the Enochians unstrapped Crowley. The Trans-Temporal Man rose from the throne and shouted, “Enough of this!”

The gunfire stopped. Burton heard revolvers clicking fruitlessly. Those machines that were still sparking fell silent. Nothing that required ignition functioned.

Crowley vaulted over a bench, pounced on Krishnamurthy and Bhatti, and knocked their heads together. They folded to the floor.

Burton tried to rise but the strength was draining from him.

“Mr. Burke,” Crowley said, “check the cell. I want to know how Burton got out of it.”

An Enochian snatched up a large spanner, strode to the explorer, and stood over him. “Shall I kill him, Master?”

“Certainly not. Empty his pockets, and be thorough about it.”

Burton was unable to offer resistance as his clothes were searched. It took all his concentration just to cling to consciousness.

“I think he picked the lock,” Burke reported.

Crowley bent and hauled Krishnamurthy up by his collar. He dragged him toward one of the bays. “Find whatever he used.”

“A locksmith’s tool,” Burke replied. “Mr. Hare has it in his eye. He’s dead. May I kick Burton in the head, Mr. Crowley?”

“Yes, Mr. Burke, but I’d be obliged if you’d avoid doing any critical damage.”

Groggily, Burton pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at Burke as he approached.

“You killed my partner,” Burke said.

Burton sneered and slurred, “Think nothing of it. It was my pleasure.”

A boot smashed viciously into his jaw.

Awareness came, departed, and returned. Hazy shapes moved, and voices drifted in and out of cognition. Slowly Burton realised that the cold, flat surface pressing against the side of his face was a flagstone. Blurs coalesced and gained edges. He saw a barred gate.

He was back inside his cell, with the five coffins, but without Swinburne. Instead, he found Thomas Honesty sprawled beside him.

The explorer stifled a groan, rolled over, and sat up. The cell swayed around him. He held his head in his hands and fought the urge to vomit.

I’m tired. So bloody tired. How much more of this madness can I take?

As much as is necessary to get the job done.

Then Damascus.

Except he didn’t want Damascus any more.

He gritted his teeth, raised his head, and looked at Honesty. The groundsman’s eyes were open but glazed, his face slack.

Burton reached out, shook him by the shoulder, and croaked, “How are you feeling, old chap?”

“Where am I?” Honesty slurred.

“That’s a long story. What do you remember?”

The man rubbed his eyes. “Nothing. Saw you murder John Judge. Nightmares. Have I—have I been in the Cauldron? Why do I think that? I recall—no—I don’t know. By God, I feel weak.”

Burton got to his feet. His head was aching abominably and his lower left molars felt loose. Half-dried blood caked his moustache, lips, and the left side of his face. His arm was throbbing.

He looked through the gate. Crowley’s people were clearing the central passage, moving the machines and equipment into the side corridors. The twisted, multi-limbed carcass of Gregory Hare lay where it had fallen, with blood pooled around it. The Trans-Temporal Man was sitting cross-legged on a table and appeared to be meditating.

A voice hissed from the cell to the right. “Sir Richard, are you with us?”

“Is that you, Krishnamurthy?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, sir—that didn’t quite go to plan.”

“My fault. I shouldn’t have got caught in the first place. Is Algy with you?”

“No, just Bhatti.”

Swinburne’s voice came from the left. “I’m here. What shall we do?”

“Watch and wait.”

Sister Raghavendra, perhaps hearing the whispering, looked up and saw that Burton had revived. She walked over and checked the padlock. “If you attempt to escape again, Sir Richard, you’ll be shot in the kneecaps. The Master wants you alive but he has no reservations about causing you immense pain. Tomorrow you will serve not a primitive government, but a visionary leader.”

“A despot!” Burton snorted.

She winked at him. “Benign. All those who support him will be artificially advanced to a new stage of physical and mental development.”

“And those who oppose?” he asked, puzzled by the wink.

“They will provide manual labour or die.” Raghavendra leaned closer to the bars and, in barely audible tones, said, “I’m free of him but he doesn’t realise it. Stand ready, Richard. I’ll do what I can.” Aloud, she added, “Do not cause further disruption. If you attempt anything, your friends will be killed in front of you.”

“What’s he doing?” Burton mouthed, nodding his head in Crowley’s direction.

“He’s settling into his new form. Its brain has been designed to accentuate his mediumistic connection with his alternate selves but it will take him time to learn how to use it. I have to leave you now, else I’ll rouse suspicion.”

She moved away.

Burton watched her go then turned back to Honesty and squatted beside him, peering into his eyes. “You were possessed, Mr. Honesty. I shall try to explain.”

For half an hour, the explorer spoke quietly and rapidly, describing the nosferatu and how, like a parasite, it had lodged in John Judge before transplanting itself into Honesty. He told how Honesty had been used to create strigoi morti in the East End, their presence causing panic, and how that panic had been channelled into rioting by the Enochians’ seditious anti-German campaigning.

“Un-dead,” Honesty mumbled. “And me? Oh, God! Am I strigoi morti?”

“I don’t think so. Perdurabo can’t feed off the volonté of a body he inhabits and didn’t occupy you long enough to transform you into a nosferatu, but when we’re through with all this, we’ll have Monsieur Levi examine you to make sure.”

Burton pointed past the bars of the gate at Crowley’s new form. “Our enemy has his own flesh now,” he said. “There’s no other presence inside it to resist him the way you did, which means he can move around in daylight as easily as any of us. He’s intent on attacking the British and Germanic governments when they gather in Green Park tomorrow morning.”

“Attack how?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to—”

A low whistle from Krishnamurthy interrupted him. He moved to the corner of the cell and murmured, “What is it?”

“I was listening. I know how he intends to do it.”

“Tell me.”

“For half the length of the River Effra, where the new sewer tunnel encloses it, there’s a wide brick shelf running alongside the water. For the rest of the way—the upper reaches—the shelf narrows and is of hard clay, but between those two stretches there’s a short section where the clay has been cut away and shaped ready for the next section of brickwork. The workmen have dug a large niche into the wall there for storing their tools and materials. Bhatti and I encountered two Enochians by it. We overpowered them and found they’d been guarding a wheeled trolley on which rested a big barrel-shaped affair. We took a closer look. I’m certain it was a bomb, Sir Richard—a bloody huge one. If Crowley drops it on Green Park, it’ll leave nothing but an enormous crater.”

Burton was silent as he digested this. Then, “Drop it how? He’ll never get past the Orpheus. It would take—” He stopped. His eyes widened. “Bismillah!”

“Sir?”

“He’s going to hijack the Sagittarius!”

“No one knows the secret of the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence. They work with the diseased but never fall sick. They move among criminals but never fall victim. They surround themselves with sinners but never fall from Grace. These women appear blessed. Good fortune favours them. Some say they emanate some manner of mediumistic defence. Others say that God protects them. All I know is that I wish I was one of them, and I would have given anything to have had them with me during the dark days of the Crimean War.”

–NURSE FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

Hours passed. The prisoners alternated between short naps and watching as Crowley’s people tended to their wounds, loaded their weapons, packed away equipment, and prepared to move.

Swinburne said to Burton, “How can Crowley possibly take the Sagittarius?”

“You’re forgetting,” Burton replied, “even if Detective Inspector Slaughter’s raid on the Enochians’ clubhouse has succeeded, there were only twenty or so members in it, which—if Trounce got his figures right—leaves well over a hundred unaccounted for.”

“Ah, a sizeable raiding party.”

“Exactly, and the airfield isn’t expecting an attack. With Crowley’s ability to quash gunfire, they could wrest control of the ship before anyone realises what’s happening.” Burton rubbed his aching arm. “The Orpheus has been fitted with weapons but it wouldn’t stand a chance against that battleship.”

“Confound it!” the poet cursed. “We have to get out of here!”

“We still have hope,” Burton noted.

“In what form?” came the dubious reply.

“Sadhvi Raghavendra.”

However, four more hours went by before Burton was able to speak to the Sister of Noble Benevolence. She had slept for a period before reappearing at the far end of the passage, only to then vanish into the tunnel that led to the Effra. After an agonising wait, he saw her return to the catacomb. Many more minutes dragged by before she moved close enough for him to attract her attention.

He clicked his fingers.

She glanced at him, then strode over to a tangle of wire, picked it up, and started to unravel and coil it, giving the appearance of industriousness while edging closer to the cells, turning her ear to the explorer.

“Sadhvi,” he whispered, “are you familiar with the hidden passage that connects to the catacomb beneath the Episcopal chapel?”

She gave a barely perceptible nod.

“You have to escape through it and make your way to Battersea Power Station. Warn Isambard Kingdom Brunel of Crowley’s plan.”

“I don’t know his plan,” she breathed. “There’s a bomb. I have no idea what he intends to do with it.”

“I believe he’ll transport it through the Effra tunnel to the river’s outlet beside Vauxhall Bridge. From there, he’ll take it along the bank of the Thames to the Royal Navy Air Service Station. He and his people will attack the airfield and seize the Sagittarius. They’ll use the ship to drop the bomb on Green Park. Tell Brunel and Detective Inspector Trounce to ambush the Enochians at the bridge.”

Sadhvi nodded. “I’ll try.”

“We’ll cause a rumpus so you can get away while the attention is on us.”

At the far end of the passage, Crowley suddenly stretched, uncrossed his legs, and slid from the table.

“Good!” he announced. “I feel stronger.”

Raghavendra moved away from the prisoners.

“Galton, report!” Crowley snapped.

“It’s dawn, Master. We’re almost ready to move. Our fellows will be gathering.”

“We have a few minutes to spare?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Mr. Burke, you have my permission to proceed. Gather around, please, everybody.”

Damien Burke’s naturally woebegone features twisted into a wicked smile. He picked up a six-foot length of finger-thick cable, approached the prisoners, took keys from his pocket, and unlocked the gate to the left of Burton and Honesty’s cell.

Crowley and his people formed a semicircle halfway along the central catacomb, leaving a wide cleared space between them and the cells.

Swinburne screeched, “Get off me, you brute!”

Burke reappeared, dragging the poet by his long scarlet hair. He shoved him forward, sending him staggering into the middle of what, to Burton, was starting to look unpleasantly similar to an Indian fight pit.

“Mr. Swinburne,” Crowley announced. “You rather irritated me earlier and you also have the misfortune of being one of Sir Richard Francis Burton’s truest friends. He values you highly.”

“Nonsense!” Swinburne responded. “He hasn’t known me for more than a few days.”

Crowley laughed, revealing small, pointed teeth. His big, slanted, black eyes gleamed. He opened his long, muscular arms wide and declaimed:

But him we hailed from afar or near

As boldest born of the bravest here

And loved as brightest of souls that eyed

Life, time, and death with unchangeful cheer,

A wider soul than the world was wide,

Whose praise made love of him one with pride,

What part has death or has time in him,

Who rode life’s lists as a god might ride?

“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “That was rather good, though horribly recited. Not yours, obviously.”

“No, Mr. Swinburne, not mine. Yours. You will write it in 1890. It is entitled ‘On the Death of Richard Burton.’ You see—you shall become very good friends indeed.”

Swinburne turned to face Burton and raised his eyebrows.

Burton gave a slight shake of the head, as if to say: Don’t provoke him!

“So,” Crowley said, “much as it pains me to do so—for I admire you greatly—I shall hurt you in order to hurt him. And perhaps in future you will think twice before mocking me.”

“I wouldn’t put money on it,” Swinburne replied.

Burke lifted the cable, whirled it around his head, and cracked it onto the poet’s back. It tore through Swinburne’s jacket and sent him to his knees.

“Ow!” he cried out. “Bloody hell! Ha ha! Yes!”

Burke pulled back his makeshift whip and sliced it down again. It slapped across Swinburne’s shoulders, shredding his outer garments.

“Argh! He he he! Ooh! I say! Golly, that smarts!”

Thomas Honesty moved to Burton’s side and gripped the bars of the locked gate. They watched grimly as Burke set about the poet, his lash striking again and again. Swinburne hopped and skipped about. He fell and got up, fell and got up, all the time squealing and crying out as his clothes and skin were flayed.

“By God!” Honesty groaned. “How can he stand it?”

“Yow!” Swinburne screeched. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Eek!”

“He’s enjoying it,” Burton murmured. He saw Sadhvi Raghavendra surreptitiously backing out of the semicircle.

“Enjoying? Are you mad?”

“His brain doesn’t function as a normal man’s. He feels pain as pleasure.”

“Yikes!” Swinburne yelled. “Ha ha ha! Blimey!”

“Pleasure?”

Sadhvi slipped into a side corridor and was gone.

“Yes, Mr. Honesty. He’s in raptures. Look at him.”

Swinburne was laughing hysterically, tears of unbridled joy streaming down his cheeks.

“More!” he shrieked. “Put your back into it, old thing!”

Burke snarled and slashed. The cable wound around Swinburne’s waist then fell away, taking a strip of his shirt with it.

“Stings!” he squawked, and, turning around, pushed down his trousers and showed his buttocks to Burke. “Tally-ho, old chap! Let loose! Swish! Swish!”

Burke obliged, flying into such a rage that the slashing cable became almost invisible to the eye.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

“Yaaah! Ooh ooh ooh, yes! Ouch! Ouch! Ha ha!”

Uttering a yell of frustration, Burke sprang forward, took Swinburne by what remained of his collar, yanked him around, and shoved him hard toward the coffin bay in which Burton was held. The poet crashed against the gate and clutched at the bars. He looked at the explorer, winked, grinned, and said, “My hat, Richard, what a dose he’s giving me!”

The cable smacked across his back.

“Oof! Yow! Has Sadhvi got away?”

“Yes. Go for his eyes, Algy. He’s dangerous. We need him out of the picture.”

Crack!

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! I’ll see—”

Crack!

“Ha ha ha! What I—”

Crack!

“Aaah! Eek! Oh oh! Can do!”

Crack!

The poet staggered back from the gate. The whip slapped against his shoulder blades and curled around his chest. He immediately raised his arms and pirouetted, winding the cable around himself and dancing closer to his assailant. Furiously, Burke jerked at the line, trying to yank it away from the poet. Swinburne timed it perfectly—just as Burke pulled, he jumped. Their combined strength sent him leaping high. His knees impacted against Burke’s shoulders and as the thug lost balance and went down beneath him, Swinburne fell on top with his thumbs over the man’s eyes and his full weight behind them.

Burke’s howl of agony shattered the spell, and as Swinburne rolled away from him, everyone started moving. One of the Enochians drew a pistol. Crowley snatched it from his hand, paced forward, and smacked the weapon into the poet’s mop of hair. It clunked against Swinburne’s skull and he went limp.

The Trans-Temporal Man straightened and looked down at Burke, who was writhing on the ground emitting scream after scream with his hands clamped to his face and blood welling between the fingers.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Burke, you’re no use to me at all in that state.” He pointed the pistol, shot Burke through the heart, then turned to Galton and said, “Put Swinburne back in the cell. I’ll deal with him at my leisure. It’s time to get going.”

The unconscious poet was returned to the bay beside Burton’s. A few minutes later, the Enochians locked Darwin and Lister into another before gathering at the tunnel mouth and filing out through it. They didn’t appear to notice Raghavendra’s absence.

Aleister Crowley approached Burton and with a cruel smile said, “I forgot to tell you, Isabel was perfectly delicious. How are you bearing up without her?”

Burton stared at him silently for a moment, then said, “She and I once talked about how we’d like to be laid to rest. We settled on a mausoleum. I now realise my post-mortem circumstances will be quite different.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I shall spend eternity in hell with my hands clamped around your throat.”

Crowley laughed. “After what I intend for you, that is quite probable. I’m going to work my way through all those you hold dear, Burton. Swinburne first, then Monckton Milnes, Thomas Bendyshe, Charles Bradlaugh, Edward Brabrooke—oh, I know them all. You’ll watch them die slowly and painfully until your life is desolate.” He clapped his hands. “But such amusements are for tomorrow. First I have a couple of parliaments and royal families to kill. Wait here. I’ll return for you. Perhaps we can lunch together.”

He turned away and walked toward the tunnel.

“Why, Crowley?” Burton shouted after him. “Why me?”

The Trans-Temporal Man looked back, blinked his unnerving eyes, and deliberated for a moment before answering. “In truth? Because you’re the only person I fear.”

He departed.

Burton slammed his hands against the gate. “Damn him! Damn him!”

He heard a crash from Krishnamurthy and Bhatti’s cell.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to kick my way out,” Bhatti called. “Unsuccessfully. All I’ve managed to do is hurt my blasted foot. For the love of God, do we have to remain here with no idea of what’s happening?”

Burton signalled to Honesty and they put their shoulders to the gate. The heavy wrought iron didn’t budge. The explorer spat an oath and began to examine every inch of the cell. He looked for loose bricks, for a removable flagstone, for a means to lever the barrier from its hinges; he found nothing.

Swinburne groaned.

A voice hissed, “Are they all gone?”

“Trounce!” Burton exclaimed. “Is that you? Yes, we’re alone. How did you find us?”

Detective Inspector Trounce stepped into view, a revolver in his hand. Eliphas Levi and Montague Penniforth followed behind him.

“We waited at the power station,” the policeman said. “When you didn’t return, we came looking for you. We’d just descended into the other catacomb when Sister Raghavendra appeared. She’s gone on to warn Brunel. Is it true? There’s a bomb?”

“It’s true. Get us out of here.”

“Here, let me, guv’nor,” Penniforth rumbled. He stepped forward, gripped the gate near its hinges, put a foot against the wall, and heaved. While he pulled, Burton and Honesty pushed, and after a few seconds of straining, the gate suddenly gave, its hinges breaking free of the brickwork in an explosion of red dust.

The giant cabbie applied himself to the other cells, and in short order all the prisoners were liberated.

“Mon Dieu!” Levi cried out upon seeing Swinburne, who emerged a ragged and bloody mess.

“It’s all right, monsieur,” the poet said. “I’m stinging all over, but it’s perfectly delicious.” He reached up and gingerly felt a large lump on his head. “Apart from this.”

“And you, Monsieur Honesty?” the Frenchman asked. “Comment allez-vous?”

“Regaining some strength,” Honesty answered.

“Très bon! Your weakness is to be expected, but Perdurabo, he possess you only for a few days. You will soon recover, I think.”