Текст книги "The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Burton said, “Thank you,” made for the indicated doors, and pushed through them. The wooden staircase beyond needed brushing and creaked as he climbed it. He reached the second floor and moved along a panelled corridor, passing closed rooms until he came to the one marked 14. He knocked.

“Come!” a voice called.

Burton entered and found himself in a high-ceilinged square room, well illuminated by a very tall window. Filing cabinets lined the wall to his left. A big portrait of Sir Robert Peel hung on the chimney-breast to the right. Two armchairs were arranged in front of the fireplace. There was a heavy desk beneath the window. Detective Inspector Slaughter, a slender and narrow-faced man with a tremendously wide, black, and bushy moustache and thick eyebrows, stepped out from behind it and strode forward, his hand outstretched.

“Sir Richard! Congratulations! The Nile! Splendid! Slaughter’s the name, sir. Sidney Slaughter, at your service.”

Burton, trying hard to ignore the line of white liquid that decorated the detective’s moustache, handed him his authorisation, which Slaughter examined with interest before exclaiming, “Stone the crows! His Majesty’s signature, hey?”

“Indeed so. I’ve been given special dispensation to look into the Babbage, Gooch, Brunel, and Nightingale abductions.”

“Oh ho! Have you, now! Well, to be frank, I’m utterly foxed by the whole affair and would appreciate any help you can offer. Would you care for a cigar? I smoke Lord Dandy’s. They don’t measure up to Havanas, but they’re quite acceptable.”

“Thank you.” Burton took the proffered smoke, accepted a light, puffed, and grunted approval.

“Drink?” he was asked.

“No, thank you.”

“You don’t mind if I do?” Slaughter waved the explorer into one of the armchairs before retrieving a large glass of milk from his desk. He seated himself opposite Burton and said, “I have to guzzle this blessed stuff by the gallon else my belly plays up something rotten. Acid imbalance, my doctor calls it. Stress of the job, I’d say. Who’d be a policeman in this rotten city, hey? The place is infested with villains. Anyway, the abductions.”

“Yes. What can you tell me about them?”

Slaughter leaned back in his chair. “Not a great deal, unfortunately. There’s been precious little progress, not for the want of trying. How much do you know?”

“Next to nothing.”

Slaughter lifted his glass to his lips and drained it, adding to the snowy fringe on his moustache. “Well now, old Charles Babbage was the first. He vanished from his home on Devonshire Street, Portland Place, on the fifth of August, ’fifty-seven. Initially, it was thought he’d made off of his own accord. He’d been under immense pressure to further refine the mechanical brains of his clockwork men and was almost certainly losing his mind.”

“There’s evidence of that?”

Slaughter nodded. “According to his wife, he was becoming increasingly and irrationally vexed by noise, especially that made by street musicians. He’d frequently fly into rages and harangue them from his bedroom window, and on three occasions he emptied his chamber pot over their heads.”

“I’ve often been tempted to do the same,” Burton noted.

“The point being that you didn’t, hey? Also, Babbage was obsessive about his work, but apparently he was starting to apply that same mania to rather inconsequential matters. For example, he counted all the broken panes of glass in a factory, then wrote a pamphlet entitled—what was it now? Ah, yes—‘Table of the Relative Frequency of the Causes of Breakage of Plate Glass Windows.’ You can see why, when he was reported missing, we were quick to conclude that he’d gone barmy and scarpered.”

Burton drew thoughtfully on his cigar. “Is there anything to suggest otherwise?”

“Nothing substantial, but an elderly neighbour, Mr. Bartholomew Knock, claimed to have seen Babbage marched into a carriage by two men. I have his written statement, which you’re welcome to examine, but I’m afraid it doesn’t amount to much, and Knock himself died during last year’s cholera epidemic.”

The police detective jumped to his feet and crossed to the filing cabinets. He opened a drawer and withdrew a cardboard folder.

“Are you sure you won’t take a drink, Sir Richard?”

“Perhaps a cup of tea, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Splendid!”

Slaughter went to his desk, pulled out a speaking tube, whistled for the person at the other end, and said, “Have a pot of tea and a couple of cups sent up, would you? Plenty of milk, please. And give my appointments to Detective Inspector Spearing until further notice.” He returned to his chair and handed the file to Burton. “I occasionally indulge in a cuppa. Plays merry havoc with the guts but it keeps the mind sharp, hey? So, where was I? Yes, Daniel Gooch, he was next to go. Like Babbage, he’s one of the big DOGS. He was last seen on Friday the eighteenth of March, this year. A very odd disappearance, his. He was in charge of construction at Hydroham—you know? The undersea town off the Norfolk coast?”

“I’ve read a little about it.”

“He was wearing an undersea suit—”

“A what?”

“It enables a man to work for prolonged periods on the seabed. Basically, a watertight all-in-one outfit, with air tanks attached. The wearer is completely covered, but for his face, which is visible through a glass plate in the front of the helmet. Gooch was sealed into such a suit, a chain was attached to it, and he was lowered into the water. An hour later, the suit was pulled back up to the boat. It was intact but empty. Gooch had vanished from inside it.”

“How?”

“Exactly. How? And no one has seen him since.” Slaughter frowned, his shaggy eyebrows shadowing his eyes. “Frustrating. Like all detectives, I’m allergic to mysteries. They put me on edge and make me bilious.”

Burton opened the file and scanned the pages. Mostly, they contained information about the people who’d vanished rather than anything useful that might explain how or why they’d gone.

“Brunel,” he said. “His case is also rather extraordinary.”

“Indeed so.”

There came a knock at the door and a short, white-haired woman shuffled in bearing a tray.

“Tea, sir,” she said.

“Thank you, Gladys. Put it on my desk. I’ll pour.”

The woman did as directed and departed. Slaughter went over to the tray.

“You’ll want milk?”

“No. Just sugar. Four spoonfuls, please.”

“Phew! You have a sweet tooth!”

“A taste I picked up in Arabia.”

Slaughter served the explorer. Burton then watched with mild amusement as the detective combined just a few drops of tea with a great deal of milk and cautiously sipped the mixture.

“So,” he asked the Yard man, “what exactly happened with Brunel at Penfold Private Sanatorium?”

Slaughter returned to his chair. “I spoke with a Sister Clements. She said he went there on Thursday evening and claimed he was going to suffer a stroke. The attack occurred early on Saturday morning. It was mild, but Clements was concerned it might be the precursor to something more serious. On Saturday night, at eleven o’clock, two men entered the hospital and attempted to abduct him. The nurses who tried to stop them were pretty ruthlessly rendered unconscious—”

“By what means?” Burton interrupted.

Slaughter raised a hand with the fingers held rigidly straight and made a chopping motion. “To the side of the neck.”

“Not a common method for an Englishman,” Burton mused.

“No. Am I right in thinking the technique is Oriental?”

“Yes. But the men weren’t?”

“No, though their appearance was, by all accounts, rather grotesque. As you’ll see in the report, it matches that of those infamous scoundrels and fugitives, Burke and Hare.”

Burton looked back at the file and turned a page. “But they were stopped?”

“They were indeed. The question is, by whom? Certainly, no police constables were sent to the sanatorium, yet two turned up in the nick of time and a right old punch-up ensued.”

“A fight?”

“Yes. And as skilled as the kidnappers might have been with their foreign chops and kicks, the two young men made good with honest bare knuckles, drove ’em off, and took Brunel away to safety. The only problem being that they didn’t say where ‘safety’ was.”

“And you’re certain they weren’t real policemen?”

“As I say, none was sent, none of our people reported the incident, and the men in question never identified themselves.”

Burton lifted his cup, drank from it, and said, “What did they look like?”

“Young. Indian. Not unusual. We have a great many Indian men in the Force.”

Sir Richard Francis Burton put his cup down, rattling it in the saucer. He looked at Slaughter and his mouth worked silently for a moment.

The detective frowned and said, “What is it? Indigestion? Tea too strong?”

Burton shook his head. “Would you—would you check to see whether there’s a Constable Bhatti in the ranks?”

Slaughter arched one of his extravagant eyebrows, nodded, and went to his desk. He used a speaking tube to call the Personnel Office, made the enquiry, then returned and stood in front of Burton.

“No, Sir Richard, there isn’t. Why do you ask?”

“Because late on Sunday night, I encountered a constable named Bhatti who knew where I lived, who appears to be in cahoots with a cab driver who’s been following me, and whose nose was swollen, as if he’d been in a fight.”

Slaughter looked surprised. “Our witness to the Nightingale kidnapping, which occurred on Sunday, said her abductors were Indian and one had a bloody nose.”

The explorer got to his feet, moved to the middle of the room, and faced the other man. “Detective Inspector, there are very few people who are aware that I’ve been assigned to this case. My brother, the minister of mediumistic affairs, is one of them. Four years ago, two young Indians, Ravindra Johar and Mahakram Singh, rescued him from a severe beating. They accompanied him home and he was placed in the very same sanatorium from which Brunel has disappeared. They then vanished, never to be seen again.”

“You think this Bhatti chap is one of them?”

“I do.”

Slaughter put his hands to his stomach. “What’s going on, Sir Richard?”

“Detective Inspector—I have no notion.”

Burton left room 14 feeling more perplexed than when he’d entered it. If Bhatti had approached him after he’d started this investigation, it might make sense. But he’d done so the day before Burton was given the task, which suggested a foreknowledge that wasn’t possible unless Edward had lied and was still in contact with his erstwhile saviours. If that was the case, what was he up to?

No. Edward was an arrogant and evasive bugger, but he was family, and as distant as they might be now, the bond they’d formed as children remained strong. Burton couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that his younger sibling was doing anything untoward.

He walked along the corridor toward the stairs. As he passed the door marked 19, he heard it creak open behind him. Fingers suddenly closed over the back of his collar and a pistol was pushed between his shoulder blades. A familiar voice said, “Inside! Now!”

He was yanked into the room, whirled around, and given a violent push. The door slammed shut as he sprawled onto the floor. He rolled and looked up at Macallister Fogg.

“What the—?” he spluttered.

“Be quiet!” Fogg growled, brandishing his gun. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Which?” Burton asked.

“What?”

“Should I be quiet or should I tell you?”

“Humph! Don’t play the clever beggar with me. Answer the confounded question.”

Burton raised a hand. “I’m going to retrieve something from inside my jacket. It isn’t a weapon, so don’t get jittery and start shooting.”

“Slowly.”

Reaching into his inner pocket, Burton pulled out his authorisation card and threw it to Fogg’s feet. The man squatted, his aim remaining steady, retrieved it, and read it.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “The king!”

“Exactly,” Burton said. “I’m getting to my feet now.” He pushed himself up. “I suggest you put that pistol away and tell me your real name. I take it you’re an actual police detective rather than a character from the penny bloods.”

“I am. Detective Inspector William Trounce. I entered the lobby while you were talking to Pepperwick, saw you, waited for you to finish with Slaughter, and—” The man shrugged, pocketed his pistol, handed back the authorisation card, and gazed searchingly at Burton. His eyes were bright blue and, Burton thought, despite his aggression, good-natured in appearance.

The explorer said, “What’s it all about? This habit you’re developing of throwing me around is becoming quite irritating. Am I right in thinking you’re the same Trounce who was at The Assassination?”

Trounce’s eyes narrowed. “You saw me there?”

Burton gave a puff of annoyance. “I’ve already told you—I was at sea. So you were the constable who discovered the Mystery Hero?”

The detective’s shoulders slumped. “There’s plenty who say I killed him.”

“Did you?”

“No. You did.”

Burton laughed. He stopped abruptly when he saw that Trounce was serious. He took a deep breath and hissed it out between his teeth.

“All right, Detective Inspector. Why don’t we, as the Americans say, lay our cards on the table? Tell me the whole story, and I give you my word of honour, I’ll answer honestly any question you care to ask.”

Trounce held the explorer’s gaze for a second then gave a curt nod. “Not here,” he said. “As far as The Assassination is concerned, I’ve received nothing but ridicule and suspicion inside this damned building. Will you take a pint with me?”

Burton really didn’t feel like indulging, but he lifted a finger to his bruised eye and said, “You owe me one.”

A few minutes later, the two men stepped out of Scotland Yard, turned left into Whitehall, and followed it along into Parliament Street. They didn’t speak a word until reaching a corner, when Trounce said, “Here.” They rounded it into Derby Street and, a few paces later, arrived at the Red Lion public house.

They ordered beer, settled into a relatively quiet corner, and remained wrapped in their own thoughts until the pot-boy delivered their flagons of ale.

Trounce drank half of his in a single swallow, then regarded Burton and said, “It’s been the bane of my bloody life.”

“The Assassination?”

“Yes.”

“I was reading about it in the British Museum Library this morning.”

“And I suppose you read that I chased the so-called Mystery Hero into the trees where I found him dead?”

“Isn’t that what happened?”

“Not exactly. Certain parts of my report were suppressed.”

“What parts?”

Trounce’s left hand curled into a fist. He looked at it with a slight air of bemusement, as if it were acting under its own volition.

“I found the body, all right, but that’s not all. Draped over a branch beside it, there was the strangest suit of clothes I’ve ever seen. A one-piece costume of shiny white material, like fish scales; a black helmet; and a pair of extraordinary boots, such as a stilt-walker might wear. Before I could take a proper look, I heard movement behind me, turned, and was immediately cracked in the head with a rifle butt. By the time I regained my wits, my attacker and the suit were gone.”

“So someone else was there. No other witnesses?”

“A street-sweeper saw a man climbing over the park wall into Piccadilly. He was carrying a large bag, a jewel case, and a rifle. The description matched the man who knocked me senseless.” Trounce took another swig of beer then angrily dragged his wrist across his mouth. “It was you.”

Burton shook his head. “In your estimation, how old was this man?”

“Your age. No. A few years older.”

“Older than my age now or my age in 1840?”

“Now. I know, I know, it couldn’t have been you.”

“Detective Inspector, I was nineteen and on a ship. My father, who bears no resemblance to me, was in Italy. My brother, who is three years my junior, was in India. All of this can be easily proved. The person you saw had no connection to me whatsoever.”

Reluctantly, Trounce gave a guttural acknowledgement. He stared miserably into his almost empty flagon.

“I was very young—barely out of short trousers—and new to the Force. They said I panicked, reacted to events, and confused the Mystery Hero with the assassin. Some even suggested I killed him, invented the other man, and paid the witness to support my story.” His upper lip curled into a snarl. “Utter bollocks! I saw what I saw!”

Burton observed unfeigned confusion in the detective’s eyes. The man had assaulted him, lied to him, and accused him of a crime, yet the explorer felt himself taking an inexplicable liking to the fellow. There was something very down-to-earth about Trounce. He had passion and sincerity. He appeared trustworthy and reliable.

“Detective Inspector—” he said.

“Just Trounce. I’m off duty now.”

“Very well. Mr. Trounce, I’m investigating Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s disappearance—”

“Slaughter’s case?”

“Yes. But there’s more to it. I can’t tell you what—it’s a state secret. Suffice it to say, certain aspects of it appear to hark back to the time of The Assassination. For that reason, I’d rather like to meet this sweeper of yours. Is he still around?”

“Yes. He lives in Old Ford, a village to the northeast of London. Can you fly a rotorchair?”

“Yes.”

“Come by the Yard tomorrow morning. I’ll procure a machine for you and we’ll pay him a visit.”

“There’s no need for you to—”

Trounce guzzled the last mouthful of beer and slammed his flagon onto the table.

“Whether you like it or not, Burton, I’m going to be behind you every step of the way. I need a solution to this accursed mystery!”

“Very well. In that case, I’ll have the home secretary order Chief Commissioner Mayne to assign you to the investigation. Can you work with Slaughter?”

“Yes, he’s a decent sort. You have the authority to do that?”

“I do. And if Mr. Walpole gives permission, I’ll fill you in on the rest.”

Trounce’s eyes flashed with determination. “By Jove!” he growled. “If you can help me to clear my name, I’ll be in your debt for life!”

He scowled thoughtfully.

“Is there something else?” Burton asked.

Trounce’s nostrils flared slightly. “Just—just—Humph! A suggestion I made at the time. It was dismissed outright.”

“Tell me.”

“When I recovered my wits, I went down to the path and examined Victoria’s corpse.”

“And?”

“The manner in which her blood had sprayed across the carriage and ground—it looked to me like the bullet struck her in the back of her head, not the front.”

Burton leaned back in his seat. “In other words, you don’t think Edward Oxford killed her. You think the man with the rifle did.”

“Yes. The man who looked like you.”

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

–OTTO VON BISMARCK

“Transform the world with Beauty!”

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

“Form follows function!” the DOGS decreed.

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

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

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

Rotorchairs were elegant. They were exquisite.

Sir Richard Francis Burton hated them.

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

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

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

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

“Diligence?” Trounce asked.

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

“Humph!”

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

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

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

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

“Detective Inspector nowadays.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stopped and his eyes went wide.

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

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

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

“Y-yes. Come. Come.”

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

“This is about The Assassination, then?”

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

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

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

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

“Nevertheless.”

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

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

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

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

Burton nodded.

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

“Yes,” Trounce confirmed. “The same.”

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

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

“Tube?”

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

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

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

“Go on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stood, and the other two followed suit.

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

Trounce added, “I feel the same.”

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

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

“Sangappa,” he said.

Burton turned to him. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bismillah!”

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

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

“Bloody impossible! It makes no damned sense at all!”

His vehicle angled into the ground, hit it hard, slithered over grass, slammed into the horizontal slab of a grave, and toppled onto its side. The wings broke off with a loud report and went bouncing away. Burton was catapulted out, thudded onto the grass, rolled, and came to rest on his back.

He lay still and looked up at the sky.

“How?” he whispered. “How?”

Staccato chopping cut through the air and Trounce’s rotorchair came into view. The detective must have looked back and seen him go down.

Trounce landed, threw himself out of his vehicle, and raced over to Burton.