Текст книги "The curious case of the Clockwork Man"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

“Simple enough,” he breathed. “Let's be off.”

He pushed gently on the footplate. The insect shuddered and rattled, steam whistling from the vents between its many legs. It jerked ahead, stopped, the engines spluttered, snarled, and the vehicle began to rumble forward.

Burton struggled with the controls. The machine was so long that, as he exited the square and guided it onto Waterloo Road, its middle strayed onto the pavement and scraped against the corner of a bakery, grinding horribly on the brickwork and causing red dust to plume into the already dense atmosphere.

Some of the millipede's legs cracked and snapped against the building. The shop's display window shattered.

“Careful! Careful!” Hare shouted.

Burton jammed down his heels.

“Steer out into the centre of the street, else we'll lose all the limbs along this side!”

“Sorry,” the king's agent mumbled. He looked back along the length of the vehicle, trying to judge distances. “Whose bloody stupid idea was it to turn an insect into a confounded ‘bus?” he growled.

A yank at the right-hand lever followed by a slow pull back on the left sent the machine away from the corner and out into the middle of the road.

He accelerated along the thoroughfare, fighting to maintain control as the omnipede snaked wildly from side to side, hurtling into abandoned carts, overturned braziers, and all manner of debris, smashing everything aside or crushing it flat beneath its numerous short, powerful legs.

Burton tried to slow it down-he could barely see where he was going-but the footplate was far too responsive and his clumsy efforts caused a jolting motion that had his teeth clicking together and Hare yelling at him.

“Stop or go, if you please, Captain, but for pity's sake try not to do both at once!”

The king's agent glanced again at the gauges.

Perhaps if– -

He reached to a small wheel beside the pressure indicator and turned it counterclockwise. Immediately, all along the great length of the omnibus, plumes of steam screamed out of the vents.

The vehicle stabilised.

“The pressure was too high!” he called. “I've got her in hand now!”

Phut! Phut! Phut!

He looked back.

Gregory Hare was shooting at a brougham that had emerged from the swirling smoke and was racing alongside, its steam-horse panting, its driver hollering incoherently. A man was hanging loosely out of the passenger cabin, his arms dangling, cactus spines projecting from the side of his head. Behind him, using him as cover, another man was brandishing a pair of pistols and taking potshots at Hare.

“Shoot the blessed driver!” Burton yelled.

“I'm trying! Perhaps you could pilot this contraption a little more steadily?”

“God-damned stupid machine!” ground out Burton through gritted teeth. “Why in the name of all that's holy did I ever leave Africa?”

He wrenched at the left steering lever, sending the omnipede thundering around a motionless and badly dented litter-crab.

A bullet whined past his ear.

“Lions I can bloody well cope with. Mosquitoes I can bloody well cope with. Even traitorous bloody partners, I can bloody well cope with. But giant steam-operated insects I can quite-”

The ’bus slammed into a beer wagon, sending splintered wood exploding outward.

“-happily-”

The vehicle bucked and shook as it trampled over the shattered cart.

“-do without!”

“I'm hit!” Hare cried.

Burton looked back and saw that Palmerston's man had slumped down, clutching his hip, his wide mouth contorted with pain.

The brougham drew closer to the head of the racing insect.

“Stupid stuck-up ponce!” bawled the driver. “You think you can cheat Tichborne?”

Bullets thudded into the carapace at Burton's side.

The stench of the Thames wafted over the king's agent as the omnipede streaked past empty tollbooths and out onto Waterloo Bridge. He caught a glimpse of Big Ben through the stifling atmosphere. Orange light reflected from the side of the tower. The Houses of Parliament were burning.

A shot clipped his ear.

“Upper-class pig bastard!”

“Snooty pisspot!” yelled the brougham's passenger. “Tichborne forever!”

“You two are worse than parakeets,” Burton shouted. “And I've had quite enough of it!”

He tugged at the right steering lever, sending the omnibus swerving sideways until it collided with the pursuers. The driver shrieked as his vehicle was rammed into the bridge's parapet.

“Sweet Jesus!” screamed the man inside the cabin as it crunched against the stone barrier. With shocking rapidity, the entire box suddenly flew to pieces and was thrown into the air. The steam-horse overturned and the disintegrating brougham somersaulted over it, smashed against the railing, and disappeared over the side of the bridge.

“There you are, gents,” Burton muttered. “A little river water for you. Wash your mouths out.” He called over his shoulder: “Are you all right, Hare?”

“Just keep going, Captain! I seem to be immobilised but I daresay I'll live!”

A group of wraiths hove into view at the side of the bridge then wafted away.

A man walked into the path of the omnipede. He was carrying the headless corpse of a woman slung over his shoulder. As Burton jammed his heels down, the man looked up and grinned. Blood oozed from the corners of his mouth.

The millipede hit him square on and he vanished beneath its stampeding legs.

“Idiot!” Burton spat.

The machine ran on, slowed to a scuttle, and came to a stop. The explorer hoisted himself out and moved back to Hare.

“I just caught sight of a police cordon at the end of the bridge. It looks like they've blocked off the Strand. We can get help.”

Damien Burke groaned and his eyes fluttered open. “You appear to be injured, Mr. Hare,” he mumbled.

“I am, Mr. Burke. As are you. Don't worry, we haven't far to go.”

He looked at Burton, held out the spine-shooter, and said: “Your gun, Captain.”

“No, you keep hold of it while I run ahead.”

“But-”

The king's agent jumped to the ground, scooped up a sharp-ended length of wood, and stalked forward, holding it like a spear, his eyes stinging as particles of ash and soot drifted into them.

“Oy! You there!” came a shout. “Go home! Get off the streets or you'll find yourself under arrest!”

“Police?” Burton called.

“Yes.”

“I am Captain Sir Richard Burton.”

“The Livingstone chap? You're joking!”

“I'm perfectly serious, Constable, and please don't ever refer to me as ‘the Livingstone chap’ again!”

A uniformed man emerged from the smoke. “Sorry, sir. No offence intended. And it's sergeant, actually. There's a police cordon behind me. I'm afraid I can't allow you to pass.”

Burton threw his makeshift weapon aside, dug a hand into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. From it, he took a card which, approaching the policeman, he held out for inspection.

The sergeant examined it. “Stone the crows!” he exclaimed. “You're rather important!”

“It would seem so,” responded Burton dryly. “I have two injured men with me, Sergeant-?”

“Slaughter, sir.”

“Slaughter? Really? How grimly appropriate.”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Sidney Slaughter at your service.”

“My colleagues are Lord Palmerston's men and they need to get to Whitehall without delay. Can you rustle up an escort?”

“Certainly. Are they back there?”

“Yes. In an omnipede.”

“I'll give you a hand with them. We'll get them to the tollbooths-they mark the edge of the cordon-then I'll arrange transportation.”

“Thank you.”

They hurried back to the giant insect where they found Damien Burke propped weakly against one of its canopies, brandishing the spine-shooter.

“Thank goodness, Captain,” he gasped. “I appear to have regained my wits just as Mr. Hare lost his. However, I fear I may revisit oblivion at any moment. I'm in quite dreadful pain.”

Burton took the gun from him and helped him down to the road.

“This is Slaughter,” he said.

“I wouldn't go that far, Captain.”

“The sergeant. It's his name.”

“Oh dear.”

The policeman slipped his shoulder under Burke's healthy arm. “Don't worry, I've got a hold of you. Let's be off.”

They staggered away, while Burton climbed onto the omnipede and, employing his great strength, lifted the prone form of Gregory Hare from the floor. He dragged him down the steps then followed after the policeman.

A couple of minutes later there came a hail.

“Hey! Sergeant! Over here! I say! Is that you, Captain Burton?”

“Yes, who's that? Come and give me a hand!”

The haze parted as Constable Bhatti stepped out of it.

“Ah! Hallo there!” Burton said.

“Hello, Captain. Strewth! Who're these two?”

“Palmerston's men.”

Slaughter lowered Burke and said to Burton: “Lay your man against the booth here.” He called to a nearby colleague: “Constable Peters, dash off and fetch a carriage, would you?” Then he turned to Burke: “I'll run you both to a hospital.”

“No,” Burke responded hoarsely. “We need to get to Whitehall. I'll give you the address.”

“But you need your wounds seen to, man!”

“We'll get medical assistance there. Please, do as I say.”

Slaughter shrugged. “Very well, sir.”

Constable Bhatti muttered, in a low voice: “Captain, I saw Mr. Swinburne a little while ago and managed to snatch a quick word with him. He was with Herbert Spencer-and disguised as an urchin. They were on the trail of a fellow named Doyle.”

“How long ago? Any idea where they were headed?”

“Perhaps an hour, and to the Cheshire Cheese tavern on Fleet Street.”

“Good. Maybe they're still there.”

“If you're going to follow, I recommend you take the same route they did-along the Embankment and up Farringdon Street. It's a little less direct but whatever you do, don't try to pass through the Strand. There are monsters running rampant and no one who's gone in has come out again.”

“Monsters? What do you mean?”

“I don't know what they are. One has been glimpsed through the smoke. Huge, apparently. We tried to do a recce by air but our rotorchairs dropped like stones. We lost four men. Then we tried to fly swans over the area but they panicked as soon as they got near and flapped off in the other direction, taking their drivers with them. Only our runners and parakeets can get in and out, but, of course, that's not doing us much good. Now we're waiting until morning before we try to clear the area. By the way, what's wrong with Mr. Swinburne?”

“Wrong? What do you mean?”

“He seems, um-how shall I put it?-even more incomprehensible than usual.”

“Ah. Yes. My fault. I mesmerised him. I'm sure the side effects will wear off in due course.”

“Mesmerised! Why?”

“I believe this rioting is being instigated by some sort of mediumistic transmission. I was trying to shield him against it.”

“Phew!” Bhatti exclaimed. “I wish you'd stay and give my colleagues the same treatment. We've had men going off half-cocked about Roger Tichborne, men running into the Strand and not returning, men collapsing with headaches-it's been bloody mayhem!”

“And you, Constable? How are you faring?”

“I've had a throbbing skull since this chaos began but I'll survive. Is that the carriage I hear?”

“I believe so. Will Burke and Hare be taken care of?”

“Yes, Captain, Sergeant Slaughter will get them to where they need to go.”

Burton turned to Palmerston's men, both of whom were conscious now, both slumped against the side of a tollbooth.

“I'm going to leave you in Sergeant Slaughter and Constable Bhatti's capable hands, fellows.”

“Right you are, sir,” Damien Burke said. “Incidentally, we never got the chance to ask: was our mission successful?”

“It was. My thanks to you both.”

“Good luck, Captain.”

Burton gave a nod of his head, slapped Bhatti's shoulder, nodded to Slaughter, and ran off into the swirling haze. He sprinted to the end of the bridge, past constables who, having learned of his presence, allowed him through the cordon, then descended the steps to the Albert Embankment, which he followed eastward.

The foul stench of the Thames enveloped him as he ran, the exertion causing him to gulp lungfuls of the poisonous, particle-laden air. He started to cough, his eyes and nose streamed, and when he reached the end of Middle Temple Lane, he stopped, bent double, and spewed black vomit into the gutter.

His head was spinning and his chest wheezed horribly, reminding him of Isambard Kingdom Brunel's creaking bellows. He spat, trying to rid his mouth of the foul taste of ash, bile, and pollutants.

He pushed on.

Time and again he saw wraiths but only two actual men tried to accost him and both went down in an instant with cactus spines in their thighs.

He reached Farringdon and moved in a northerly direction along the thoroughfare, away from the reek of the river. There were fewer buildings ablaze here and the smoke cleared somewhat, allowing him a better view of the abandoned street.

A runner went past him, a blur of grey. He saw more of the dogs speeding back and forth. He guessed they were carrying messages between police stations; the force made extensive use of the postal system.

There were just a few people stumbling about, looking dazed and bewildered, barely conscious of their surroundings. He shot a man who lurched at him, but the others left him alone. Then it dawned on him that every tavern he'd passed appeared full, each producing the sounds of merriment and arguments, songs, shouts, and laughter. Obviously, now that the evening was drawing in, the rioters were taking shelter and refreshment, preparing to see the night through with copious amounts of alcohol. He wondered whether it would loosen the grip of whatever was influencing them, as it had with Swinburne.

He entered Fleet Street and had progressed but a few yards when he spotted Herbert Spencer standing in the shelter of a doorway.

“Boss!” the vagrant philosopher exclaimed. “I weren't expectin’ to see you!”

“Hallo, Herbert. Where's Algernon?”

“In there,” Spencer replied, pointing at an ancient tavern. The sign above the door read Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. “He found out from Mrs. Doyle that her ne'er-do-well husband was livin’ in a flat above a public house what's called the Frog and Squirrel. He went there disguised as a street waif an’ sure enough found the man himself proppin’ up the bar. Drunk as a skunk, he was. Doyle has some sort of appointment later on, and Master Swinburne has tagged along with him as far as this here pub. I saw ’em headin’ down to the Embankment, to give the Strand a wide berth, so I followed and managed to exchange a few words with the lad on the sly. Incidentally, the Strand is where the wraiths are thickest-an’ there are crowds of Rakes wanderin’ about in it, too, but the thing is-” He stopped and shuddered.

“What is it, Herbert?”

“Them Rakes what I glimpsed-”

“Yes?”

“I think they was dead.”

Burton frowned. “How can they be wandering about if they're dead?”

“I know. It ain't possible, but that's what I saw. They're dead, but they ain't realised it yet!”

“Walking dead? By God! And what's this about huge monsters? Constable Bhatti said something of the sort had been seen.”

“Yus, but it's just one and it's the Tichborne Claimant, Boss, grown fatter than a whale! I tells you, if'n you go into the Strand, the wraiths will confuse your mind, the dead Rakes will beat you senseless, an’ the Claimant will bloomin’ well eat you!”

“Eat you?”

“Yus. He's got a taste for human flesh-an’ those what are riotin’ are followin’ his lead!”

“I saw as much. What the hell is happening, Herbert?”

“Dunno, Boss, but it ain't nuthin’ good. An’ to think back in March we thought it were just a simple diamond robbery!”

“I wonder if Algy has discovered anything useful from that Doyle fellow. Do you think I can get into the tavern without having the living daylights kicked out of me?”

“If you muss yourself up a bit more and go in your shirtsleeves, you'll pass muster, what with your face all sooty, as it is.”

Burton slipped out of his jacket and waistcoat, handed them to the vagrant, and looked ruefully at his one-armed shirt.

“I suppose this will be regarded as a qualification,” he muttered. “At least I look like I've been in a scrap!”

“Yus. An’ if you don't mind me a-sayin’ so, you have the face of a pugilist, too.”

“Forgive me if I don't thank you for that comment. So, do I look the part?”

“Muss up your hair a little bit more, Boss.”

Burton did so.

“Perfect.”

“Wait here, Herbert. I hope this won't take too long. It depends how drunk my wayward assistant is.”

He crossed the street, paused outside the tavern, pushed the door open, and entered.

The low-ceilinged interior was quite literally packed to the rafters with working men and women of the very lowest order, with, no doubt, thieves, murderers, and whores mixed liberally among them. They were drunk and boisterous, and many appeared glassy-eyed with something beyond alcoholic intoxication. A few were so far gone they were practically catatonic, standing motionless amid the cacophony with slack faces and eyes rolled up into their sockets.

He pushed his way through the laughing, shouting, singing, squabbling mob, feeling that, at any moment, a knife might be thrust between his ribs or a broken bottle mashed into his face.

“To hell with soddin’ aristocrats!” someone bellowed.

A roar of approval went up and Burton joined in, so as not to stand out.

“Ari-sto-craaats-” rasped a man beside him.

“Three cheers for Sir Roger!”

Burton cheered with them.

“Up with the working man!”

“Aye!” they yelled.

“Aye!” Burton shouted.

As he shoved through what looked to be a group of poorhouse workers, they broke out in song: “When the Jury said I was not Roger,

Oh! How they made me stagger,

The pretty girls they'll always think

Of poor Roger's wagga wagga!”

A wave of maniacal laughter greeted the verse. One man's guffawing turned into a loud, incoherent wail then cut off abruptly. He stood grinning stupidly, with spittle oozing down his chin.

“Pour more booze down the silly bugger's neck,” someone called. “That'll get ’is engine runnin’ again!”

“Aye!” shouted another. “Them what's not quaffin’ will end up in a coffin!”

This was greeted with more mirth and raised glasses.

Burton registered the paradox that those who were most inebriated were apparently also the ones who retained most of their wits. It confirmed that alcohol did, indeed, go some way to counter the effect of the Tichborne emanations.

He saw Swinburne, looking every inch the guttersnipe, squashed into a corner with a hollow-eyed, bespectacled, long-bearded individual.

“Oy! Nipper!” he roared. “Get yer arse over ’ere, yer little brat!”

“You tell ’im, mister!” A dirty-faced strumpet giggled, nudging him in the side. “Put the scamp over yer knee and give ’im a bloody good spankin’-an’ after that, you can do the same to me!”

Raucous laughter erupted around him. He joined in, and bawled, “Aye! An’ the flat of me hand ain't all you'll be a-hankerin’ after, is it? I has it in mind that you'll be a-wantin’ a bloody good roger, too-an’ I don't mean his nibs Tichborne!”

A deafening cheer greeted his gibe and, under cover of the clamour, raised tankards, and gleeful scoffing, he signalled Swinburne to join him.

The poet said something to his companion, stood, and pushed his way through to Burton's side. The king's agent thumbed toward the door, mouthing, “Let's get out of here!” then grabbed his assistant by the ear and dragged him through the pub and out onto the street.

“My ear!” the poet squeaked.

“Dramatic necessity,” Burton grunted.

They crossed the road and joined Spencer.

“How are you holding up, Algy?” the explorer asked.

Swinburne rubbed his ear and said, “Fine. Fine. What about that spanking?”

“You got quite enough of that outside Verbena Lodge. What's Doyle up to?”

“Drinking, drinking, and more drinking. He can really knock it back. I'm astonished he's still standing, and, as you know, I'm a past master in such endeavours. I really am very impressed. If it came down to a challenge, I'd-”

“Stop babbling, please.”

Burton wondered whether mesmerising the poet had been such a good idea. As he'd suspected, the consequential behaviour was proving unpredictable, Swinburne's verbosity being the most obvious symptom.

“He's on his way to a seance, Richard. It's at ten o'clock at 5 Gallows Tree Lane, on the outskirts of Clerkenwell, very close to the Literary Gentlemen's Unpublishables Club. You know the place-I believe you once went there with old Monckton Milnes. If I remember rightly, you wanted to consult their copy of The Seven Perilous Postures of Love by one of your obscure-or do I mean ‘obscene’?-Arabian poets. It's the club with the supposedly secret scroll of-”

“I know! I know!” Burton interrupted.

“My hat! Do you think they chose Gallows Tree Lane because of its name? Nice and morbid for summoning spirits!”

“Be quiet a moment, Algy. I need to think.”

“Very well. I shan't say another word. My lips are-”

Burton grabbed his assistant, whirled him around, pulled him close, clapped a hand over his mouth, and held him tightly.

“Herbert, would you say Doyle is my height?”

“Yus, more or less, but thinner.”

“Reach into the left pocket of my jacket, would you?”

Spencer, who had Burton's jacket draped over his arm, did as directed and pulled out the brown wig and false beard the king's agent had worn to Bedlam.

“A decent match, do you think?”

“I'd say so, Boss. P'raps his is a touch lighter in colour, but not by much.”

“Mmmph!” Swinburne added.

“Good. When Doyle comes out of that tavern, we're going to jump on him and exchange his jacket and hat for mine. Then I want you and Algy to drag him back to Montagu Place. Keep him there and under no circumstances let him go. Is that understood?”

“To the hilt.”

“Question him. He's intoxicated, so maybe he'll blab something of interest. Ask him about fairies.”

Swinburne squirmed wildly and managed to wriggle out of his grasp. The poet hopped up and down excitedly.

“Fairies? Fairies?” he squealed. “Fairies? What's his pet obsession got to do with anything?”

“Just ask him, Algy. See what he says.”

Spencer eyed Swinburne. “If he can get a word in edgeways.”

“Richard! Surely you don't intend to-”

“Yes, Algy. I'm going to that seance in the guise of Charles Altamont Doyle.”

S ir Richard Francis Burton was a master of disguise, but even he couldn't masquerade as another man so convincingly that his subject's friends and acquaintances would be fooled.

He stood on the doorstep of 5 Gallows Tree Lane, an approximation of Charles Doyle. The foppish jacket he wore was too tight, and while makeup from his pocket kit had hidden his scars and given his eyes and cheeks the appropriately gaunt cast of an addict, his pupils were almost black, whereas Doyle's were a pale and watery blue.

He was, therefore, feeling rather nervous when he knocked on the door.

It was dark now and the streets were quiet. The throbbing of a police rotorship pulsed through the air from afar.

The door opened and a man stood silhouetted by gaslight.

“Yes?”

“Am I late?”

“Yes. We've been waiting.”

“The riot-”

“I know. Come in. Leave your hat and cane on the stand.”

Burton stepped inside.

“Put this on. No names. You know the rules.”

Burton was handed a black crepe mask. He placed it over his eyes, knotting the ribbons behind his head. Inwardly, he sighed with relief. Now his disguise was more secure.

The man closed the door and turned, revealing that he, too, was masked.

“Follow me.”

The king's agent was led through a reception room and into a large parlour. A dense stratum of blue tobacco smoke floated just above eye level. There was a big round table in the middle of the room with seven chairs arranged around it. Two men stood by a bureau, three by a fireplace. All were dressed in the Rakish manner. All wore masks. They turned as he entered.

“Gentlemen, we can start,” the man who'd answered the door announced. “Please lay your drinks aside, extinguish your cigars, and take your places at the table.”

Each man did as directed, while the host turned down the gas lamps until the room was in near darkness. His guests moved to the chairs, seeming to sit in preselected positions. Burton hung back until it became clear where he should place himself. He sat.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the ticking of a grandfather clock.

“I shall begin this meeting as I have begun every meeting,” the host intoned, adopting a low and rhythmic manner of speech, as if beginning a ritual, “with a statement of purpose, for we are undertaking a great work. Those who would flinch from it must remind themselves that what we do, in the fullness of time, shall be for the greater good of mankind.”

“The greater good of mankind,” the gathering echoed.

Burton's jaw muscle flexed. He was going to have to anticipate these repetitions and join in.

Don't get it wrong!

“Our watchword is freedom.”

“Freedom!”

“Our object is liberation.”

“Liberation!”

“Our future is anarchy.”

“Anarchy!”

“Join hands, please.”

Burton reached out and felt his hands gripped by his neighbours.

“True freedom comes not from rights granted in the courts of law but from the complete absence of law. True freedom cannot be imposed from without but must flower from within. True freedom is not the prerogative to do something but the right to do anything. True freedom knows no bounds, no reason, no moral centre, no belief, no time, no place, no status, no god.”

“No god,” they chorused.

“Gentlemen, rules must be broken.”

“Rules must be broken.”

“Propriety must be challenged.”

“Propriety must be challenged.”

“The status quo must be unbalanced.”

“The status quo must be unbalanced.”

“Though each of us here occupies a privileged position, we must each be willing to sacrifice it that the human species may progress, for the cycle of ages turns and a time of transition is upon us.”

Burton stifled an exclamation. Again, those words!

“Each has a part to play in the great upheaval that is to come. Each part is essential to the whole. Do not waver. Do not doubt. Do not question.”

The room was suddenly heavy with a presence, sensed but not seen.

The clock stopped.

A strange tone entered the host's voice; it was as if another person-female-was beginning to force her own words through his vocal cords.

“We shall go forth this night, as we have done before. We shall carry the vibrations of change to the people. We shall guide them to true liberty.”

“True liberty!” the group chanted.

“Urk!” the host said.

Burton stared at him. The man had suddenly thrown his head back and opened his mouth. A bubbling, shifting, globular substance was rising into the air from deep within his throat-the king's agent could see the sides of the man's esophagus undulating as the matter rose up through it.

Ectoplasm!

Possessing the qualities of both a liquid and a gas, the strange material rolled and twisted upward into the cloud of tobacco smoke. Burton squinted, unsure how to interpret the scene that unfolded before him. It appeared that the layer of smoke was glowing slightly and bulging downward over the centre of the table.

The female voice now filled the room. It wasn't coming from the man any longer, but reverberated, it seemed, in the very atmosphere itself.

“Send forth your astral bodies, my sons. Undertake our great work. Walk abroad and touch the souls of the unenlightened.”

The bulge in the smoke rapidly congealed into the shape of a woman's head and shoulders, hanging upside down from the cloud. A swirling, wispy arm reached out and a vague finger touched one of the Rakes on the forehead. Burton watched in amazement as a ghostly form detached itself from the man's seated figure. It hovered behind him for a moment before blowing away on an unfelt breeze, dissolving into the gloom of the chamber.

“Go forth, apostles, and liberate the downtrodden and the oppressed.”

She had a Russian accent.

The woman's finger touched a second man and a wraith emerged from him and vanished.

She turned until she was facing the Rake sitting on Burton's left. Her eyes were jet black, glinting in the smoke like gemstones.

Lady Mabella. The murderer of Sir Alfred Tichborne.

“Travel through the astral plane, my child, and-”

She paused.

Her eyes swivelled to Burton and fixed upon him.

“You!”

He jerked back in his chair and gasped, tried to stand but couldn't. Pain gripped the back of his head as if a cold hand had clamped down on his brain.

“Intruder! Spy!”

She had not spoken aloud. Her voice was now inside his skull.

The host twitched and choked as the ectoplasm continued to flow from his mouth. The two men whose astral bodies had departed sat blank-eyed and motionless. The three other men turned their heads and regarded Burton. One of them said something but no sound emerged. There was no sound in the room at all; a profound, unnatural silence had fallen.

Everything slowed and became motionless. Only the ghostly woman moved.

Something wormed its way into Burton's mind.

“Who are you?” she hissed.

He flinched and fought against her intrusive probing. Get out of my head!

“My! How resistant! I am impressed! You have willpower! No matter, your defences are nothing to me. Your name is Richard Burton. Ah. I see you have a reputation. A scholar, an explorer, and-an irritant!”

Withdrawing into himself, the king's agent visualised the mental chambers and structures he'd established through self-mesmerism. His knowledge of Edward Oxford-and of a future that had been destined but which was now cut loose and replaced-he set aside. He devalued all the routes to it and made them seem so entirely insignificant that they would, he hoped, be overlooked. At the same time, he strengthened the mental walls surrounding his more personal and sensitive memories and tried to make them impenetrable.

He was using his own insecurities to entice her away from the information he needed to protect.

It worked.

“No, no, malchik moi! There is no hiding!”

The words were like a blade, running him through.

Who the hell are you? Don't try to fool me with that Lady Mabella nonsense!

A cruel chuckle echoed in his skull.

“Ah yes, the unfortunate Tichborne clan and their silly curse! How convenient that was!”

His walls were breached.

Stop!

“My, a complicated little thing, aren't you? What is this? You are in the employ of the king himself! So I was right! You are a spy!”