Текст книги "The curious case of the Clockwork Man"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Burton turned away from the sight of her crushed skull and horribly folded carcass and found that Herbert Spencer was standing at his side. The brass man held out his cupped hands. The king's agent looked into them and counted.

“Seven fragments. Is that all of them?”

Spencer nodded.

“Good. Hold on to them, will you? The bloody things give me a headache. Let's get out of here. And Herbert-”

The brass head regarded him.

“Thank you.”

Burton recovered a chair from a crumbling and fast-disappearing mound of ectoplasm and used it to smash his way through the calcifying substance blocking the door and corridor beyond. The mediumistic material was fading from existence with increasing rapidity, and by the time he and his mechanical companion had descended to the Venetia's ground floor, nothing of it remained to be seen.

They stepped out into the fogbound Strand. It was strangely silent.

Burton swayed, struck by a wave of dizziness, and clutched at his companion's arm for support.

“Give me a moment,” he muttered.

The next thing he knew, he was looking up at the anxious faces of Algernon Swinburne and Detective Inspector Trounce.

“Did I pass out?”

“Pillock!” screeched Pox from the poet's shoulder.

“Evidently,” Trounce said. “Lord Nelson carried you out of the fog. How's our enemy?”

“Dead. The show is over. And he's not Lord Nelson. Give me a hand, would you?”

Looking perplexed, Trounce reached down and hauled Burton to his feet.

“Not Nelson? Is it a different device?”

Pox hopped from Swinburne to the clockwork man's head and whistled: “Beautiful sweetheart!”

“No,” Burton said. “It's our mutual friend Mr. Herbert Spencer.”

Trounce frowned. “What?”

“There's no time to explain, old man. Suffice it to say that Sir Charles Babbage was a genius.”

“No time? I thought you said Blavatsky is dead?”

“She is, and so is Rasputin. I have to go. There's someone I need to see before I collapse onto my bed to sleep for a week.”

“Shall I come with you, Richard?” Swinburne asked, with a trace of anxiety in his voice.

“No, Algy. I have to do this alone.”

He turned to the brass philosopher. “Hand me a couple of the diamonds, would you?”

Spencer dropped two stones into the explorer's waiting palm.

Burton slipped them into his waistcoat pocket, turned, and staggered off into the fog.

“Hey!” called Trounce after the fading figure. “Who the dickens is Rasputin?”

“Give Herbert a pen and paper,” came the receding reply. “He'll write you an explanation!”

Trounce scratched his head and mumbled: “By Jove! If he's just defeated the Blavatsky woman and brought all this nonsense to an end, you'd think he'd look a mite happier about it!”

The fog thickened.

Burton picked his way through corpses and debris, gave a curt greeting to the constables he encountered, left the Strand, made his way along Haymarket, and passed through Piccadilly Square.

It was maybe five or six in the morning-he was waiting for Big Ben to chime-and there was a faint glow overhead as dawn struggled to penetrate the murk. The city was absolutely silent.

He walked along Regent Street, passing broken windows and gutted shops. He couldn't shake the feeling that the world was crumbling around him.

The riot was over. Blavatsky was dead. Rasputin's mind had been shredded and the present was free of his sinister influence.

Yet something was deeply, deeply wrong.

The vapour swirled around him, muffling his footsteps, as he entered Oxford Circus and turned left.

A weighty despondency was settling over him, exactly like that he'd experienced in Aden after returning from Africa's Lake Regions. It was the notion that, despite his every effort, a job had not been completed.

“What is it?” he muttered. “Why do I feel that I've failed?”

He came to Vere Street and stopped outside a narrow building sandwiched between a hardware shop and the Museum of Anatomy. It had a bright yellow door and a bay window, behind which a deep blue curtain hung.

Taped against the inside of the window there was a notice that read: The astonishing COUNTESS SABINA, seventh daughter, CHEIROMANTIST, PROGNOSTICATOR, tells your past, present, and future, gives full names, tells exact thought or question on your mind without one word spoken; reunites the separated; removes evil influences; truthful predictions and satisfaction guaranteed. Consultations from 11 A.M. until 2 P.M. and from 6 P.M. to 9 P.M. Please enter and wait until called.

Burton looked at his reflection in the glass. His fierce countenance was a patchwork of red and purple bruises.

“None of this is your doing,” he said, “but Chance has put you in the thick of it. Now you have to play the game to the finish.”

His eyes moved to the notice.

Prognosticator.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the cold glass.

The African Eye will be found.

He was suddenly short of breath and started gulping in mouthfuls of air.

Found by you.

“Bismillah,” he gasped. “Bismillah. It's all gone to hell.”

An early-morning cafe had opened across the street. Burton took a moment to even out his breathing then walked over to it, entered, and asked for a coffee.

“You're the first bloomin’ customer I've had in days,” the proprietor grumbled, glancing curiously at the explorer's battered features. “You fancy a round of buttered toast? It's on the house, mate.”

“That would be very welcome,” Burton answered. “Thank you.”

He sat quietly, sipping coffee and eating toast until a light came on and glowed through the fog from the upper window of the building opposite. He gave it forty minutes or so, then left the cafe, crossed the road, and knocked on the door.

He waited, and, after a few moments, knocked again.

The countess opened the door. She wore a long, shapeless midnight-blue gown.

“Countess Sabina,” he said. “My apologies. I know it's early.”

“Captain Burton. My goodness, what has happened to you? Were you run over by one of those dreadful omnipede things?”

He managed a wry grin. “Something like that, yes. I require your talents. It's a matter of great importance.”

She gazed at him silently for a moment, her eyes unfathomable, then nodded and stepped aside.

He entered and followed her along a short passageway, through a doorway hung with a thick velvet curtain, and into the room beyond. It smelled of sandalwood. Wooden chairs stood against its undecorated walls.

They stepped into a smaller room. It was sparsely furnished, though its shelves and mantelpiece were crowded with esoteric trinkets and baubles. A camphor lamp hung low over a round table in the middle of the chamber. The countess put a match to its wick.

She sat down.

Burton settled opposite.

He moistened his lips and said: “I'm-I'm afraid.”

She nodded silently. Her eyes shifted focus. She seemed to be looking right through him. In a barely audible voice, she whispered: “The cycle is complete. The time of change is upon us. War is coming.”

“And I have a role to play.”

“Yes.”

“I feel… displaced.”

“You are. This is not your intended path.”

“Is it anybody's?”

“No. We live in a strange world, Captain, but soon, it will be even stranger for both of you.”

“Both of us? Are you referring to my assistant?”

“Both of you, Captain Burton.”

“Explain.”

“I-I can't. I don't know how. I'm sorry. I feel-I feel that you are divided.”

“It's odd,” Burton replied. “That's something I have often sensed myself, especially while in a malarial fever. I don't know what it means.”

“Neither do I, but-but, somehow, I know that everything depends on it!”

Burton leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows shooting up.

“ What? ”

The countess shook her head and shrugged. “I can say no more.”

A silence settled over them and they sat gazing questioningly at each other until the prognosticator murmured: “Why did you come to see me, Captain?”

Burton rubbed his gritty eyes. God, he was tired! He rested his scarred hands on the table, looked down at them, and answered: “Countess, the future should be shaped by the past and the present. The past and the present should not be shaped by the future. Yet on two occasions now-or at least two that I'm aware of-men have reached back and interfered with the course of events. Just how much damage have they done? We must answer this question. I want you to look into the future that was meant to be.”

“Original history? That is impossible.”

“Is it? When you take route A over route B, does route B cease to exist?”

“No-but though I can sense the other path, I cannot see along it. We are too far past the junction. It is beyond my ability.”

Burton reached into his pocket. “I have something that will augment your talent.”

He placed two black diamonds onto the table.

They hummed quietly.

“M ediumistic powers do not exist.”

Sir Richard Francis Burton let his statement hang in the air for a moment.

He continued: “In Victorian Britain-by which I mean our time as it would have been had Edward Oxford not interfered-astral bodies, mind reading, etheric energy, and spiritualism are, from a scientific standpoint, proven to be at best highly implausible and, in all probability, utter balderdash.”

The king's agent sat at the head of a long table in a grand hall in Buckingham Palace. There were nine others in attendance: the eugenically enhanced prime minister, Lord Palmerston; the vulture-faced secretary for war, Sir George Cornewall Lewis; the evasive-eyed chancellor of the Exchequer, William Gladstone; the grey-bearded foreign secretary, Lord John Russell; the miserable-looking first lord of the Admiralty, Edward Seymour; the deviant red-headed poet, Algernon Charles Swinburne; the aloof chief commissioner of Scotland Yard, Sir Richard Mayne; the clockwork philosopher, Herbert Spencer; and the steam-powered engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

Without any shadow of a doubt, it was the oddest gathering the royal residence had ever seen.

There was one further presence: King Albert's eyes and ears hung above the table like a bizarre chandelier-an apparatus comprised of hearing trumpets and lenses, which swivelled this way and that to follow the men as they spoke. The monarch was notoriously reclusive. Of those present, only Palmerston had met him face-to-face.

Brunel chimed: “You do not make sense, Sir Richard. Changing the course of history cannot alter the laws of physics. Whatever etheric energy might be, it plainly does exist.”

“As you know to your cost,” Swinburne offered, eyeing his friend's yellowing bruises.

“It exists here,” Burton responded. “But in Victorian times, it does not.”

“Your witch saw with such clarity?” Palmerston demanded.

“She's a seer, not a witch, and yes, Prime Minister, with the aid of two of the black diamonds, Countess Sabina's clairvoyance was accentuated to an extraordinary degree.”

“And the reason for the discrepancy?”

“The aforementioned gemstones. The Eyes of Naga.”

“How so?”

“As you know, the South American stone was discovered in Chile by Sir Henry Tichborne in 1796. He secreted it beneath the Crawls at Tichborne House. If time had not been altered, the diamond would have remained there until the building was demolished in the year 2068. About a hundred and thirty years later, Edward Oxford cut shards from it and used them in the mechanism of his time-jumping suit.”

“By George!” Sir Richard Mayne exclaimed. “How far into the future did your countess look?”

“Into the alternative -that is to say original -future, she saw clearly to the end of this century. After that, her vision became increasingly murky. There were certain points of interest that she focused on, the black diamonds being one of them, and she was able to follow those developments much farther through time, to the detriment of other matters. I should point out that she did so at great cost to herself and afterward collapsed with mental exhaustion. I suggest some sort of compensation from the government might be appropriate.”

“Be damned!” Palmerston exclaimed. “I'm going to employ the bloody sorceress! Pray continue, Captain.”

Burton cleared his throat and glanced at the contraption on the ceiling as it rotated to face him. “So Oxford journeyed back to 1840 and from there was thrown farther, to 1837, where he created an immediate paradox, for now the splinters of the South American stone existed twice in the same time. They were in his suit and they were also beneath the Tichborne estate. This caused them to resonate with each other, and because all three Eyes of Naga are chunks of the same aerolite, the Cambodian fragments started to resonate, too, producing the hum that led to their discovery. I'd wager the African diamond, wherever it is, also began to ‘sing.’

“Being underground, Tichborne's treasure couldn't be heard, but the reverberation caused the equivalent string in the family piano-B below middle C-to let loose frequent twangs.”

“Astonishing,” Cornewall Lewis grunted. “A man appears in London and, in Hampshire, Cambodia, and probably Africa, diamonds serenade his arrival!”

Burton nodded. “Yes, Mr. Secretary, astonishing indeed. But it's only half the story. I've spent the past few days in the British Library researching clairvoyance. Do you know when the first clear, incontrovertible evidence of mediumistic energies emerged?”

“When?”

“In 1837. Over the ensuing six years there were many recorded instances. They all coincided with periods when Spring Heeled Jack was active in our world. Then there were no more authenticated occurrences until last year. We now know that he jumped directly from 1843 to 1861. The diamonds in his suit have been here ever since, and genuine clairvoyant powers have been demonstrated with increasing frequency this past twelve months.”

Brunel clanged: “Then your hypothesis is that the diamonds’ resonance has awakened in the human brain some power that would otherwise have remained dormant?”

“That is for your scientists to explore,” Burton replied. “But in my opinion, etheric energy and all that goes with it is a product of the human organism and, yes, the resonance stimulates it.”

Spencer scribbled in a notebook and held it up, displaying a single word: Evolution?

Burton shrugged.

“Damnation!” Palmerston shouted. “If all that you say is true, bloody Rasputin would never have had the wherewithal to stick his confounded nose into our business had Oxford not done so first! Are we now so vulnerable to meddlers and madmen from the future?”

“It would seem so.”

An uneasy silence fell over the meeting. It ended with two words from Edward Seymour: “And Prussia?”

“Yes,” Burton said. “The countess saw.”

Another pause.

“Tell us,” said Palmerston, quietly.

“The World War was originally set to begin some fifty years from now. Oxford's actions have brought it forward by at least a decade.”

“Christ!”

“The countess described the sequence of events. This is what we can expect-”

For the next hour, Sir Richard Francis Burton described future history. He told the king, the politicians, and his companions how the Eugenicist exodus to Prussia would give that kingdom the means to gain dominance over the German Confederation, incorporating it into a greater union of the Germanic people. How Bismarck, to consolidate the southern borders of his new country, would declare war on France and defeat Napoleon III using biological weaponry developed from the plant life currently infesting Ireland.

He outlined the arms race between the Technologists of the British Empire and the Eugenicists of the Germans; the emergence of Friedrich Nietzsche as a visionary politician who would eventually overthrow Bismarck; and Germany's aggressive expansionist policies that would, inevitably, lead to conflict on a massive scale.

When he finished, the room sank into a deep silence and stayed there.

The politicians could not keep the horror from their faces. Even Palmerston's inexpressive facade had somehow become dominated by the shock in his eyes.

A minute ticked by, and then a voice came from the ceiling, amplified through a speaking trumpet in the mechanism above the table.

It said: “Make me a different future.”

The men looked at each other.

“I shall put my people to work at once,” Brunel clanged. “We can strengthen our navy; build an air force; design new weapons.”

“Good idea,” said Cornewall Lewis.

“Excellent,” said Edward Seymour.

“Absolutely not!” shouted Gladstone, who'd been assiduously avoiding Burton and Swinburne's eyes for the entire meeting. “How in blue blazes are we supposed to finance it?”

“Impractical and impossible,” Lord John Russell agreed. “We've only just avoided a revolution by the skin of our teeth. If we raise taxes we won't need Russian lunatics to start another one!”

“Besides which,” Palmerston added, “the whole damned world will say I'm warmongering. Starting an arms race now might precipitate the conflict even earlier!”

Herbert wrote something and held it up: Diplomacy.

Cornewall Lewis snorted: “With Germans?”

“I have an idea,” Swinburne said.

Palmerston jumped to his feet and kicked his chair backward. He clenched his hands together behind his back and paced up and down.

“What about allies, Burton?” he barked. “Did your sorceress suggest whom we might trust?”

“No, she didn't. I think we're on our own. Prime Minister, Algy can be quite insightful. I strongly suggest-”

“No! No! No! This is unacceptable! I will not go down in history as the man who lost the Empire!”

“Assuming you're still prime minister when it happens,” Sir Richard Mayne hissed quietly.

“-that you listen to what he has to say,” Burton finished.

His words were lost, for Palmerston had flown into one of his infamous rages. He kicked his chair across the floor, slapped a glass from the table, and yelled incoherently. His eyes were wild, yet through it all, his masklike face remained weirdly impassive.

The men waited for his tantrum to pass. It took three minutes before the prime minister seemed to suddenly deflate. He stood panting, glancing from man to man, his normally white features flushed.

“Madam Blavatsky used the diamonds to enhance her mediumistic talent,” Swinburne murmured. “And Richard used them to strengthen Countess Sabina's abilities.”

Palmerston gazed blankly at the diminutive poet. “What?”

“I'm merely suggesting that, if we ensure we possess all three Eyes of Naga, then perhaps we can gain the upper hand. We could recruit talented mediums and use the stones to accentuate their powers. We could divine the enemy's strategy. We could interfere with our opponents’ minds. We could wage a war of infiltration and enchantment. We could start now, and our enemies wouldn't even know that war was being waged upon them.”

Palmerston's mouth dropped open.

Burton said: “I told you he's worth listening to.”

The prime minister blinked rapidly, forced a breath out between his teeth, and pulled his snuffbox from his pocket. He went through his usual ritual, which ended, as always, with a prodigious sneeze, and peered at the poet with one straight eye, while the other slid upward disconcertingly.

“Mr. Swinburne,” he said. “You are a god-damned bloody genius.” He addressed Burton: “The African stone?”

“You might have problems securing it,” the explorer warned. “Quite apart from the difficulties Africa itself presents, we know that nothing can fly over the region where the diamond is undoubtedly located. That suggests to me that some force of mind is at work, interfering with machinery in much the same way that Rasputin was able to jam guns.”

“So someone is guarding the Eye?”

“Someone or something, yes. And there's another problem.”

“What?”

“I think it highly probable that Lieutenant John Speke is preparing a Prussian expedition to the region.”

With his top hat set at a jaunty angle and his cane swinging, Sir Richard Francis Burton strode along Gloucester Place.

A Folks’ Wagon beetle scuttled past, belching vapour. A little boy, sitting on its rear bench, looked at Burton as the vehicle went past and poked out his tongue. The king's agent glared at him, snarled, then crossed his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, and blew a raspberry. The youngster laughed delightedly and waved.

A horse shied away from the steam-powered insect and overturned a vegetable stall. Onions and potatoes spilled onto the road and bounced across the cobbles. Shouts and curses followed the giant beetle as it rounded a corner and scurried out of sight.

“Wotcha, ‘andsome,” crooned a streetwalker from a doorway. “Fancy a bit of ‘ow's yer father?”

Burton winked at her, flipped her a tuppenny bit, but kept walking.

Up ahead, a steam-horse emitted a clangourous racket, veered to the right, and crashed into the side of a tavern. An elderly man emerged from the cab behind the engine and shouted: “Great heavens, man! You knocked the stuffing out of me!”

“It's the bleedin’ back axle, guv'nor!” the driver explained. “Third time it's broken this week!”

Burton turned into Montagu Place.

“Hey up, Cap'n! How's it diddlin’?” came a hail.

“It's diddling very well, thank you, Mr. Grub. How's business?”

“Awful!”

“The chestnut season is almost upon us. I'm sure that'll improve matters.”

“P'raps, Cap'n. P'raps. You been to see his nibs again?”

“The prime minister? Yes, I was summoned.”

“Well, I ‘ope you told ‘im that the lot o’ the common man ain't no bed o’ roses.”

“I always mention it, Mr. Grub.”

“An’ he does bugger all about it! Bloody politicians!”

“A breed apart,” Burton noted.

“That's it in a nutshell, Cap'n!”

They paused while a rotorship roared noisily overhead. Mr. Grub shaded his eyes and looked up at the enormous vessel. “What's that what's wrote on the bottom of it?” he shouted.

Burton, who knew the street vendor was illiterate, said: “It is rather hard to make out, isn't it? I think it says: Make a new life in India. Space, spice, sunshine, and all the tea you can drink!”

The mighty ship slid away over the rooftops.

“You've been to India, ain'tcha, Cap'n? Would you recommend it?”

“It has its attractions.”

“But not for the likes o’ me, I suppose. I reckons I'm better off ‘ere on me own little corner of good old Blighty! Got me own patch, ain't I! What more can a man arsk for?”

“Quite so, Mr. Grub. Good day to you!”

“An’ to you, Cap'n!” said Grub, touching the peak of his cap.

Burton strode on.

As he neared his front door, he heard: “Read all about it! Lincoln declares slaves free in Confederate States! Read all about it! Emancipation for slaves in America!”

The king's agent whistled in wonder. He spotted little Oscar Wilde and called him over.

“Big news, eh, Quips?”

“Aye, that it is, sir!” The boy exchanged a newspaper for coins.

Burton read out the headline: “Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation. Well, well! That'll make things difficult for Pam! It looks to me as if America's president is every bit as cunning as our own prime minister!”

“We have really everything in common with America nowadays,” said Quips. “Except, of course, language.”

The king's agent chuckled. “Emancipation!” he announced triumphantly. “I can't say I'll be one whit sad to see that dreadful trade banished. If America is intent on becoming civilised, then Lincoln's proclamation has just taken it a good deal closer to achieving that goal!”

Three harvesters stalked past on their tall legs, each with crated goods swinging in netting below their bodies. The second of them had somehow developed a limp, and as it thudded past, its damaged leg made a rhythmic complaint: creak-ker-chang, creak-ker-chang, creak-ker-chang.

Burton recalled Sir Charles Babbage's hatred of noise.

“The fact is, Captain,” said Quips, “that civilisation requires slaves. The Greeks were quite right there. Unless there are slaves to do the ugly, horrible, uninteresting work, culture and contemplation become almost impossible. Human slavery is wrong, insecure, and demoralising. On mechanical slavery, on the slavery of the machine, the future of the world depends.”

The famous explorer watched the three huge mechanised insects striding away. People scattered from their path. Voices were raised in anger, fists shaken.

“Maybe so, young ‘un. Maybe so.”

He bade the urchin farewell and mounted the steps of his home, glancing up at the boards that covered the hole where his study window used to be. The builders were due tomorrow to effect repairs.

“William Trounce is upstairs,” Mrs. Angell informed him as he entered the hallway.

“You're back!”

“I am, Sir Richard. And a good thing, too. I don't know why, but I've been under the impression that you promised to have the place clean and tidy. I suppose all the sea air must have gone to my head and filled me with funny notions.”

“I'm sorry, Mother. There's been a great deal happening. I haven't stopped!”

“Have you made us safe?”

“Yes. The Tichborne business is over and done with.”

“Good. Get yourself upstairs, then. I'll fetch some cold cuts and pickles for you and your flat-footed friend.”

Burton leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek. “Angell by name, angel by nature. What would I do without you?”

He bounded up the stairs, past the wrecked study, and on to the library.

“Trounce, old man!” he declared as he entered. “It is undoubtedly a splendid day!”

“Gibber-mouth!” Pox squawked from his perch.

The Scotland Yard man rose from a chair, put a book aside, and shook Burton's hand in greeting.

“Thank goodness you're here!” he exclaimed. “I've had to bear the brunt of it all by myself. I don't think I've ever been insulted so assiduously-and that's saying something for a policeman!”

“Sit down. Take a brandy. Smoke a cigar,” said Burton, throwing himself into an armchair.

Trounce sat and squinted at him suspiciously. “By Jove, you almost look happy! I didn't know that infernal face of yours was capable of such an expression!”

“I'm full of good tidings! Brunel has designed a new and more efficient voice-producing instrument-no more of that awful ding-donging-and, at this very moment, he's fitting one to Herbert Spencer. Our clockwork philosopher will be speaking by the end of the day!”

Trounce clapped his hands together. “That's tremendous! What's he going to do with himself? It must be rather awkward, being mechanical!”

Burton produced a cheroot and applied a lucifer to it. “He wants Admiral Nelson's old job-wants to be my valet. Says he doesn't trust anyone else to keep him fully wound. And he wants to write; says he's never had such clarity of thought and already has three volumes completed in his head-he just needs to scribble ’em down. If he uses my autoscribe, he'll be knocking them out at twenty to the dozen!”

“A wind-up author!” exclaimed Trounce. “That really takes the biscuit!”

“It's a publisher's dream,” Burton declared.

“Flap-tongued baboon!” sang Pox.

The king's agent drew in smoke, put his head back, and blew out a perfectly formed ring.

“Good news regarding Sir Roger, too. The Arundell family has taken him in, and Brunel is fitting him with power-driven arms, the same as those worn by Daniel Gooch. That'll certainly compensate for his missing limb. Nothing doing with the face, though; I fear the poor soul will be behind that iron mask for the rest of his life.”

“Will he take up residence at Tichborne House?”

“Yes, and he's adamant that the dole will continue to be paid every year. He still believes in Lady Mabella's curse.”

“I don't blame him. His family has had nothing but trouble since Sir Henry broke his ancestor's vow.”

Burton jumped up and said: “What about that brandy, then?”

He crossed to the chest of drawers by the door and returned with a decanter and a couple of glasses. He poured generous measures and handed one to his friend.

“How's Honesty?” he asked as he returned to his armchair. “Has he recovered from his injuries?”

“More or less. He'll not have use of his hand for a while. He's taking a month's leave. I think the sight of all those animated corpses pushed him to the brink. I've never seen him so unnerved. I daresay time spent with his wife and garden will put him to rights. He's a tough little beggar.” The Scotland Yard man raised his eyebrows. “I'm still waiting,” he said. “It's all good news but none of it explains your-what is it?– ebullience. Is that a word?”

“It is,” Burton smiled. “And the correct one.”

“So let's have it. Tell all.”

The famous explorer took a gulp of brandy, put his glass aside, and said: “Acting on a recommendation from my extraordinarily talented and brilliant assistant-”

“And perverted,” Trounce added.

“And perverted-the government has purchased the seven Francois Garnier Choir Stones from Edwin Brundleweed. They will, I'm happy to report, continue to reside in Herbert Spencer's babbage brain. The government has also bought the seven South American fragments from Sir Roger. Palmerston wants to ensure that all the Eyes of Naga are in British hands. It's a matter of state security.”

“So now they are. What of it?”

“Two of them are, Trounce. Two of them.”

The detective inspector frowned and shook his head. “There are only two. The third has never been discovered. It's somewhere in-Oh.”

Burton's eyes glinted. “Africa!” he said.

“You mean-?”

“Yes, my friend. Tomorrow I shall start putting together an expedition. I'm off to search for the third stone, and, while I'm at it, I mean to locate once and for all the source of the River Nile!”

“You're going to put yourself through all that again?”

“Don't worry, old man. With the government funding the expedition and Brunel supplying vehicles for the initial stages of the safari, I think I can safely predict that this attempt will be a great deal less traumatic than the last!”

Pox let loose a terrific shriek: “Bollocks!”