Текст книги "The curious case of the Clockwork Man"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

1837.

It was to that year Edward Oxford, the man from the far future, had been thrown after his arrival in 1840, where he'd accidentally caused the assassination of Queen Victoria.

A coincidence, surely.

At around six o'clock, Burton got home and was hanging up his hat and coat when Mrs. Angell came down the stairs, looked at him askance, and said: “There's a nasty sheen on your brow, Sir Richard. A relapse?”

“It seems so,” he replied. “I just need to sleep it off. I'll take a dose of quinine and work on my books awhile.”

“You'll take a dose of quinine and go straight to bed!” she corrected.

He didn't have the strength to argue.

Ten minutes later, she brought him up a jug of water and a cup of tea.

He was already asleep.

His afternoon of study invaded his dreams.

He became aware of a fierce light, which burned through his eyelids. He opened them expecting to see firelight flickering on a canvas roof. Instead, he squinted up at a blazing blue desert sky.

Turning his head, he found that he was on his back, with limbs spread out, and wrists and ankles bound with cord to wooden stakes, which were driven deeply into the ground.

Dunes rose up on either side of him. From beyond them came the sound of voices, arguing in one of the languages of the Arabian Peninsula. He couldn't make out the words but one of the voices belonged to a woman.

He opened his mouth to shout for help but only a croak came out. His throat was dry and his skin was burning. The sun had sucked every particle of moisture from the air.

Grains of sand, riding a hot, slow breeze, blew against the side of his face.

He couldn't move.

Something nudged his left hand. He looked. There was a fairy standing by his wrist; a tiny female figure with transparent butterfly wings fluttering from her shoulder blades. She had a colourful mark painted on her forehead-like a bindi, though designed to more resemble an actual third eye.

Burton blinked rapidly. He had the sense that he wasn't bringing the little creature into full focus, despite being able to see her clearly. She seemed only partially present, as if imposed onto something else by his own mind, and he struggled, but failed, to pierce the illusion.

The strange being regarded him with golden-coloured eyes, then turned, bared her tiny pointed teeth, and started to chew at his bonds.

A second fairy appeared, also female, and clamped her jaws around the cord binding his right arm.

Movement at his ankles told him there were fairies at work there, too.

A fifth fluttered onto his stomach and ran up onto his chest. She put her hands on her hips and looked down at his face.

Burton felt his mind manipulated until words emerged from it, and he heard, in his own voice: “The long slow cycle of the ages turns, turns, and turns, O human. Thou art one of the few who knowest how an individual of thy strange kind didst spring from the next level of the spiral into that which thou currently inhabits, into that which thou callest thine own time. This action marked a dividing. Yet the path thou treadst echoes the one that is lost, and upon both a transition begins-a melting of one great cycle into another. Be warned!-tumultuous the change that comes! The storm shall wipe many of thy soft-skinned kinsfolk from the Earth, and thou shall be present when the thunder sounds, for the time allotted to thee is filled with paradox. There is a role assigned to thee, and thou must play the part out to its end. Thy kind infest a world in which there is only dark because there is light, there is only death because there is life, there is only evil because there is good. Be thou aware that a world conceived in opposites only creates cycles and ceaseless recurrence. Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence. Remember that, Richard Francis Burton. Do not forget it. Only equivalence can lead to destruction.”

Or a final transcendence, he wanted to add.

The bonds fell from his ankles and wrists.

The five fairies backed away from him, floated into the air, landed on the sand, fell onto all fours, scampered like lizards, and burrowed into it. They vanished from sight.

He lifted his arms and rubbed his wrists.

A figure strode into view and looked down at him from the top of a dune. It was Isabel Arundell, dressed in flowing white robes and looking radiantly beautiful.

She opened her mouth to speak.

He sat up.

Light was filtering through his bedroom curtains.

It was late on Tuesday morning.

He stretched, reached for the bell cord that hung beside his bed, and gave it a tug. Moments later, the door opened and his valet stepped in.

“The usual, please, Nelson.”

The clockwork man saluted and departed.

Only equivalence can lead to destruction.

Meaningless nonsense. As for the rest of it, obviously Countess Sabina's words had become jumbled with his research, populating his nocturnal imaginings with little people and gobbledygook about vast cycles of time.

The little ones are not as they appear

The king's agent sat and pondered until his valet delivered a basin of hot water and a breakfast tray. He got out of bed, took a small bottle from a drawer, and poured five drops from it into a glass of water, which he swallowed in a single gulp. Dr. Steinhaueser had instructed him to use quinine and nothing else when his attacks came on, but, secretly, Burton had also been dosing himself with Saltzmann's Tincture, which Steinhaueser scorned on the basis that its manufacturer had never disclosed the medicine's full ingredients. He'd warned that it almost certainly contained cocaine, which could lead to dependency.

Burton washed and shaved at the basin. A warm vitality soaked into his flesh as the tincture took effect-honey and sunlight oozing through his arteries. Nevertheless, he was still feeling weak and decided to spend the rest of this Tuesday wrapped in his jubbah, dedicating himself to driving out the last vestiges of malaria with strong tobacco and perhaps a brandy or two.

After finishing his toilet and winding the brass man's key, he repaired to the study, lit a Manila, and began to leaf through the morning newspapers. A great many of their pages were devoted to the Tichborne case, and he quickly realised that he was still lacking sufficient background information about the affair. It was time, he decided, to start earning his salary.

A little later, when Mrs. Angell brought him a coffee, he asked her to take a note: To Mr. Henry Arundell, My dear sir, though, to my deep regret, relations continue to be strained between us, I hope I can go some way to repairing them by doing you a service with regard to the Tichborne situation. The prime minister has commissioned me to look into the matter, and I would greatly appreciate the advice of one who has greater knowledge of the family than I. To that end, may I extend to you an invitation to dine with me at the Venetia Royal Hotel at seven o'clock this evening?

Ever yours sincerely,

Rich'd F. Burton

“Send that by runner, please. Mr. Arundell is currently residing at the family's town house, 32 Oxford Square.”

“A nice area for those that can afford it,” the old lady opined. “If you don't mind me asking, has there been any word from Miss Isabel?”

“The last I heard, her parents had received two letters. It seems my former fiancee is running around with the notorious Jane Digby, the bandit queen of Damascus. I believe they've gathered quite a force of brigands and are currently raiding caravans on the Arabian Peninsula.”

“My stars!” Mrs. Angel exclaimed. “Who'd have thought?”

“The Arundells still consider that my breaking the engagement caused her to run off to Arabia in the first place. I expect to receive a frosty response from her father.”

His housekeeper left the room, went downstairs, lifted a whistle from a hook, opened the front door, and blew three quick blasts. Moments later, a runner arrived on the doorstep. It jogged, turned in circles, and whined restlessly until she produced a tin from beneath a hall table. She took a chunk of roast beef from it and fed it to the ravenous hound. Then she placed the waxed envelope between its teeth and stated the delivery address. The dog turned and sped away.

In his study, Burton had settled at his main desk and was writing in his journal, copying out the notes he'd taken at the British Library and adding copious annotations and cross references. An hour later, he moved to a different desk and began work on a tale from The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night. He employed a unique device for this: a mechanical contraption invented by Mrs. Angell's late husband. It was the only one of its kind, an “autoscribe,” which Burton played rather like a piano. Each of its keys corresponded to a letter of the alphabet or an item of punctuation and printed it onto a sheet of paper when pressed. It had taken the king's agent two weeks to master the machine but, having done so, he was now able to write at a phenomenal speed.

At four o'clock, a runner brought a reply from Henry Arundell: Sir Richard, The Venetia is booked solid by a large private party. I have reserved a table for us at the Athenaeum Club instead. I will see you there at seven.

H. Arundell

“To the point but satisfactory,” Burton muttered.

He abandoned the desk, flopped into his armchair, and contemplated the case at hand.

Burton met his former prospective father-in-law at the appointed time and place. As they shook hands, the elder man exclaimed: “You look positively skeletal!”

“A bout of malaria,” Burton explained.

“Still bothering you, eh?”

“Yes, though the attacks come less frequently. Have you heard from Isabel?”

“I don't want to discuss my daughter, let's have that clear from the outset.”

“Very well, sir,” Burton replied. He noticed that Arundell's face was haggard and careworn, and felt a pang of guilt as they made their way into the club's dining room.

The Athenaeum was crowded as usual, but in keeping with its reputation as one of the bastions of British Society, the members restricted their voices to a civilised murmur. A low buzz of conversation enveloped the two men as they passed into the opulent dining room and were escorted to their table by the maitre d’. They ordered a bottle of wine, deciding to take a glass before commencing their meal.

Arundell wasted no time with niceties. “Why has Lord Palmerston taken an interest?” he asked.

“I really don't know.”

“You haven't enquired?”

“Have you ever met Palmerston?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know how blasted tight-lipped he is, and I don't mean the surgery!”

Burton was referring to the Eugenicist treatments the prime minister had received in an attempt to maintain his youth. His lifespan had been extended to, it was estimated, about a hundred and ten years, and his body had been stretched and smoothed until he resembled an expressionless waxwork.

“He's evasive, that's true,” Arundell mused. “As are all politicians. Goes with the territory. But I'd have thought he'd at least give you something to go on.”

Burton shook his head. “When he offered me my first commission, last year, it was simply a case of ‘look into this,’ then he left me to it. This is the same. Perhaps he doesn't want to plant any preconceptions.”

“Maybe so. Very well, how can I help?”

“By telling me about the Tichborne family curse and their prodigal son.”

Henry Arundell tapped his forefinger on the table, gazed at his wine glass, and looked thoughtful for a few moments. He raised his eyes to Burton and gave a curt nod.

“Tichborne House sits on a hundred-and-sixteen-acre estate near the village of Alresford, not far from Winchester. The Bishop of Winchester granted it to Walter de Tichborne in 1135, and it was, just a few years later, inherited by his son, Roger de Tichborne, a soldier, a womaniser, and a brute. It was his treatment of his wife as she lay dying from a wasting disease that brought about the curse.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“What sayest thou, Physician Jankyn? Shall the bitch die this night?”

Squire Roger de Tichborne threw his riding crop onto a table and dropped into a chair, which creaked beneath his considerable bulk. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow. He'd been riding with the hounds, but the one fox he and his colleagues had flushed out had been a mangy little thing with no fight in it. The dogs had brought it down in a matter of minutes. He and the men had vented their frustration in a tavern. He was now drunk and in a foul mood.

He yelled at his valet, though the man was less than fifteen feet away: “Hobson! Dost thou stand there a doltish idler? Get these accursed boots off me, man!”

The valet, a short and meek individual, hurried to his master's feet, knelt, and started to tug at a boot.

“Well, Jankyn? Answer me! Am I to be free at last, or wouldst the filthy harridan dally?”

Physician Jankyn, tall, bony, and gloomy in aspect, wrung his large hands nervously, his mouth twitching.

“The Lady Mabella be sore stricken, my lord,” he announced. “Yet she may bide awhile.”

Hobson, gripping de Tichborne's left calf, looked up and said: “My Lady doth wish to see thee anon, sire.”

De Tichborne pulled back his right leg and, with a vicious grunt, sent his heel thudding into his valet's face. Hobson yelped and tumbled backward onto the floor, blood spurting from his nose.

“Pardieux! That's the case, is it?” de Tichborne snarled. “Get thee upstairs, thou whimpering dog, and tell the harpy that I'll see her at my own convenience and not at hers, the hell-spawned witch! Get out of my sight!”

The valet clambered to his feet and staggered away across the opulent parlour, knocked into the corner of a table, almost fell, and stumbled out of the room.

“So thinkest thou she'll tarry, hey?” de Tichborne enquired of the medical man. He bent and started to yank at his boots. “For how long, pray? Hours? Days? Weeks, may God preserve me?”

“Weeks? Nay, my lord. Not a week-nary a day. I have it that she'll live but the night through and will be taken by sunup.”

Finally liberating his right leg, de Tichborne flung the riding boot across the room. It hit a wall and dropped to the floor.

“Praise be! Fetch me a draught, wouldst thou, Master Physician? And take one for thyself.”

Jankyn nodded and moved from the fireplace to a bureau upon which decanters of wine stood. He filled two goblets and took one over to de Tichborne, placing it on an occasional table beside his host's chair.

The squire's second boot came free and followed the first through the air. It crashed into a vase atop a cabinet, shattered the ornament, and fell to the floor amid the fragments.

“Fortune grant me a single boon: to be free of that damnable nag by the morn!” the aristocrat muttered.

He took the wine and downed it in a single gulp, then jumped to his stockinged feet, pushed past the doctor, and crossed to the bureau to pour himself another.

“Prithee, repair to the library awhile, Physician. I shall take me up to see the whore.”

“But my lord!” Jankyn protested. “The Lady Mabella is in no fit condition to receive!”

“She'll receive her damned husband, and if the effort should kill her, thou canst aid me in quaffing by way of celebration!”

Jankyn moistened his lips, hesitated, nodded unhappily, and, with goblet in hand, shuffled out of the parlour through the door that led to the library.

Casting a sneer at the elderly physician's back, de Tichborne turned and also left the room. He paced to the reception hall, retrieved his shoes, buckled them on, and stamped up the broad, sweeping staircase to the gallery above. Here he stopped and emptied his goblet. He tossed it over the balustrade and wiped his mouth as the tin vessel clattered on the tiled floor below. He proceeded along a corridor to his wife's bedchamber.

One of her nurses, sitting outside the room, stood as he approached the door. She curtseyed and moved aside.

He ran his eyes appreciatively over the girl then pushed open the portal and entered the dimly lit room without announcement.

“Art thou living, wife?”

There came movement from the large four-poster bed, and a tremulous voice, directed at the two nurses who sat beside it, said: “Leave us.”

“Yes, ma'am,” they chorused, and bobbing at the squire as they passed him, they hurried out to join their colleague in the hallway.

De Tichborne closed the door after them.

“Come thou here,” the Lady Mabella whispered.

He paced over to her and looked down in disgust at her wrinkled face, sunken cheeks, and long white hair.

The eyes that looked back at him were of the blackest jet.

“I have but a short time,” she said.

“Hallelujah!” he responded.

“Drunken sot!” she exclaimed. “Hast thou no mercy in thy soul? Art thou in truth so barren of feeling? There were times-distant, aye-when thou held me close to thy bosom!”

“Ancient history, old woman.”

“’Tis so. I shall be well rid of thee, Roger, when I pass, for thou art a brute and a whoremonger!”

“Say what thou wilt. I care not. So long as thou go to judgement by morn!”

The woman struggled to push herself into a sitting position. De Tichborne watched coldly, not raising a finger to help. Finally, she managed to drag herself up a little and rested back on her pillow.

“The final judgement troubles me little, husband, for have I not given to the poor of this parish through every sad year that I abided here? It is my final wish that thou shalt do the same.”

“Ha! I'll be damned!”

“Of that I am certain. Nevertheless, I would have the de Tichbornes donate, during the Feast of the Annunciation every year, produce of the fields to the people.”

“The blazes they will!”

“Payest thou this dole, husband, or I avow, with my very last breath I shall curse thee and thy offspring forevermore!”

Sir Roger blanched. “Have I not suffered thy evil eye sufficiently?” he muttered uneasily.

“For all thou hast inflicted upon me? Nay, there can be naught sufficient for that!” the old woman croaked. “Wilt thou concede?”

The squire looked down at his dying wife. His mouth was twisted with hatred and his eyes glinted horribly in the faint candlelight.

“I shall do as thou command me,” he growled, after a long pause. “But with one provision: it shall be thou who sets the levy!”

The old woman regarded her husband, blinking in puzzlement.

“What is this?” she exclaimed. “Thou biddest me to choose the amount of the annual donation?”

“In a manner! I bid thee traverse the borders of the fields from which the wheat must be taken. I shall dedicate to the poor of the parish the produce of whatever land thou encircles. Thou hast the time it takes for a torch to burn its full length to thus mark the extent of the charity.”

Lady Mabella gasped in horror. “What sayest thou? Surely to God thou cannot expect me to walk?”

“Then crawl,” de Tichborne snarled. “Crawl!”

He strode to the door, yanked it open, and bellowed: “Nurses! Take thy mistress from the bed and dress her! At once!”

The three young women, waiting outside the bedroom, looked at each other in confusion.

“My lord?” stuttered one. “What-what-?”

“Question me not, wench! Have her clothed and on the steps of the house good and prompt, or by God's teeth you'll suffer!”

He shoved them aside and stamped away, calling for Hobson, who met him at the bottom of the stairs. The valet had a twisted and bloodied handkerchief hanging from his left nostril.

“Bringest thou two bottles of Bordeaux up from the cellar, and be brisk about it!” de Tichborne ordered. “I shall be outside, at the front of the house!”

He then paced down the hall, joined Physician Jankyn in the library, and cried: “Here, Jankyn! Follow! We are to be right entertained!”

He led the mystified physician out, and to the lobby.

“Assist me. I would take this bench outside.”

He indicated an oak bench beside the wall near the entrance. Together, they lifted it and took it through the big double doors, across the portico, down the steps, and over the carriageway to the border of the wheat fields.

“Sit, man!”

Jankyn sat. He shivered. The sky was clear and the full moon radiated a penetrating chill.

Squire Roger de Tichborne settled beside him and chuckled to himself.

Hobson emerged from the mansion and brought over the wine bottles. De Tichborne took them and handed one to Jankyn.

“Now,” he snapped at the valet, “I require three brands and a flint to light them. Hurry, fool!”

Hobson scuttled away.

De Tichborne used his teeth to pull the cork, and took a swig from his bottle.

“Drink!” he ordered Jankyn.

“My lord, I-”

“Drink!”

Jankyn raised the bottle to his mouth, extracted the cork, and took a sip.

They sat in silence until the valet returned. De Tichborne stuck a brand in the earth at either end of the bench and lit them. He saved the third, holding it in his hand. He dismissed Hobson.

“Ah!” he breathed, moments later, looking back at the house.

Physician Jankyn turned and let out a cry of dismay at what he saw.

Lady Mabella, held upright by her nurses, had tottered out of the door and was descending the steps, a frail old woman, seemingly little more than a shroud-wrapped skeleton. In truth, she was barely clothed, having pulled a gown around her night garments, draped a shawl over the top of it, and pushed her feet into slippers.

“Blessed Mary, mother of God!” Jankyn exclaimed. “What means this?”

“Do not thou interfere, Physician, I caution thee!”

Jankyn raised the bottle to his lips again, and this time he took a large gulp.

They waited, while slowly, painfully, the dying woman tottered closer.

“Hail to thee, wife!” de Tichborne bellowed. “It is a merry night, if a little chilly!” He laughed.

The woman, who would have fallen at his feet were it not for the strength of her nurses, stood trembling before him.

“Thou art bent on this course?” she wheezed.

“Thou it was who demanded the dole,” he answered, “so the charge for the levy falls upon thy shoulders. Wouldst thou retract thy final wish?”

“Nay.”

“Then take this brand. Yonder lay the wheat fields.”

He turned to the physician. “My dear Jankyn, the Lady Mabella hath commanded that I do make an annual donation to the poor of this parish. I have agreed. The good lady will now set the amount by encircling the land whose crop she deems sufficient for the purpose.”

Jankyn, who had stood at the lady's arrival, now fell back upon the bench in shock.

“She can barely walk, my lord!” he gasped.

De Tichborne ignored him and lit the brand. He held it out to his wife.

“Take it. Order thy nurses away. Show thou to me what I must set aside for charity. Thou hast until the brand is done.”

A bony hand reached forth and took the guttering torch. Bottomless black eyes held de Tichborne's for a moment. A toothless mouth muttered: “Leave me!”

The nurses stepped away.

Lady Mabella swayed for a moment. With her joints cracking, she then turned and hobbled to the edge of the field.

The squire laughed wickedly and swigged his wine. He sat down.

Speechless, helpless, Physician Jankyn watched as the old woman fell to her knees and began to crawl, supporting herself with one hand while holding the brand with the other.

“See, Master Physician,” de Tichborne chuckled. “We have fine sport this night, hey? Dost thou care to make a wager? I reckon she'll set the levy at maybe half a sack o’ grain afore the devil takes her unto his breast!”

“I cannot be party to this!” Jankyn cried. He made to stand but de Tichborne's hand clamped down hard on his arm.

“Hold! If thou makest to leave, as God is my witness, I'll run thee through with my sword!”

Jankyn fell back. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his brow.

The old woman crawled on.

And on.

And on.

Squire Roger de Tichborne became increasingly uneasy as his wife traversed the border of the lengthy field before him and passed beyond it to the next, pulling herself up the long sloping side, across the far end, and now back down toward him. By the orange glow of her torch, he could see that her knees were bleeding and tears streamed down her face.

“Fie! From whence doth the crone's strength come?” he muttered. “The devil himself, I'll warrant! The damned enchantress!”

“By the saints, my lord,” the physician said, slurring his words slightly. “How many acres hath the Lady Mabella encompassed?”

“If she returneth to us before the brand is extinguished, nigh on twenty-three!”

Painful inch after painful inch, the dying woman crawled the remaining length of the border until, finally, she dragged herself across the carriageway and collapsed onto her face at de Tichborne's feet. The torch crackled, guttered, and died.

The squire poured the last dregs of wine down his throat then threw the bottle aside with savage force.

He looked down at the woman, his lips curling back from his teeth.

“Attend her!”

The physician crouched and pulled Lady Mabella over onto her back. Her eyes rolled then fixed intently on her husband. Her lips moved.

“What?” de Tichborne snapped. “Doth she speak?”

“Aye, my lord. She biddeth thee bend closer.”

The aristocrat snorted but, nevertheless, squatted on his haunches.

The old woman whispered: “Two fields of wheat, sir. Two fields!”

Her husband hissed vehemently.

“Thinkest thou that I would honour my word to a slattern and sorceress? Foul necromancer! Scold! Shrew! Two fields of wheat to the poor? Never! They shall receive naught from me!”

“Then listen thou to my final words, O husband,” Lady Mabella whispered. “From my heart, I curse thee and thine, and this curse shall hold true through all the ages. Should the allotted dole fail for e'en a single year, there shall be seven sons born to this house, aye, and nary a one shall sire a man-child. Seven daughters shall follow, and the name of de Tichborne will thus be lost for all time. And the house itself shall fall into ruin, until naught but wind-borne dust remains of thy family!”

Her eyes closed and a rattle sounded from her throat.

The physician looked up.

“The Lady Mabella is dead, my lord.”

“And may the devil have her eyes!” The squire looked across the wheat fields. “Hang it! Twenty-three acres, Jankyn!”

“Wilt thou accede to the lady's wish, then?”

“I have but little choice. The witch's curse is upon the family now.”

He looked up at the stars and muttered: “Heaven grant mercy upon those who follow!”

Sir Richard Francis Burton sat with his mouth open, his wine glass held inches from it. He blinked, took a breath, and gasped: “Good God! The man was an animal!”

Henry Arundell agreed: “A cad of the first order, and his brutality has had a lasting influence, for every year since he killed his wife-let us not pretend he did otherwise-the Tichbornes have paid the dole, with the exception of a short period that began in 1796.”

“What happened then?”

“The seventh baronet, Sir Henry, who'd been travelling overseas for some considerable time, returned to Tichborne House, stopped the dole, and declared the estate off-limits to all. For the next few years, he lived as a recluse, not emerging from his self-imposed isolation until the Napoleonic Wars. By this time, the eldest of his seven sons had produced only daughters and the others were childless. When a large part of the manor fell down, Sir Henry realised that the curse was upon him. He immediately restored the annual contribution, had the rest of the house demolished, and built the current manor on its foundations.”

“You say he travelled,” Burton interjected. “Do you know where?”

“Mainly in the Americas, I believe. Anyway, despite the resurrection of the dole, the Tichbornes’ misfortunes weren't quite over. While fighting in France, Sir Henry's third son, James, married an ill-tempered girl named Henriette-Felicite. Though she bore a male heir to the estate-Roger Charles Doughty Tichborne, born in January of 1829-her marriage to James soon faltered.”

Arundell broke off as a waiter approached. “Shall we order?” he asked Burton.

The king's agent, who'd been absorbed in the other man's tale, waved his hand distractedly and said: “Yes, yes, of course, please do.”

Henry Arundell requested a chicken vindaloo and Burton, hardly caring what he ate, asked for the same.

“So this Roger Tichborne is the prodigal who's lately been the preoccupation of all the journalists?”

“Yes. He was doted on by his mother and raised as a Frenchman. He didn't learn to speak English until he was about twelve years old, and always spoke it with a strong French accent.

“A second son was born, too. A surprise, really, considering that James and his wife grew to hate each other. This one, Alfred, was a weak-willed lad, and was all but ignored by Henriette-Felicite, who remained devoted to her firstborn.

“To return for a moment to the grandfather, Sir Henry; when he died, one of his other sons, James's elder brother Edward, became the eighth baronet. Edward had changed his surname to Doughty as a condition of an inheritance. This is where my family comes into it, for after becoming Sir Edward Doughty, he married my aunt, Katherine Arundell, and they had a child, ‘Kattie’ Doughty, in 1834. She became romantically involved with young Roger Tichborne, who had, after being educated at Stonyhurst Jesuit School, joined the Sixth Dragoon Guards, and was spending his furloughs at Tichborne House. My aunt objected strongly to this romance on the grounds that Roger lacked prospects and didn't act in a sufficiently English manner. Plus, of course, he and the girl were cousins.

“Having been banned from seeing Kattie for at least three years, Roger determined to prove himself. Typically, he followed a flight of fancy. According to a family legend, Sir Henry had discovered a fabulous diamond in South America-”

“ What?” Burton cried, causing an outbreak of tut-tutting from the surrounding tables.

Arundell looked at him in astonishment then shook his head. “No, no, Burton,” he said. “It's just a fancy. There's never been anything to substantiate it-certainly no such gem has ever been seen, and, considering the family's current finances, it obviously doesn't exist.”

“Frankly, I hardly know what to think!” Burton revealed.

“Why so?”

“Because the-the-well, it doesn't matter-suffice it to say that I've experienced rather a profound coincidence!”