The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

  “As conceited as ever. But is the omniscience yours, Edward, or does it belong to the spook you claim contact with? Or perhaps both are sheer fantasy.”

  “The spirit and I are—or were—indivisible!” The minister tapped the side of his own head. “You don’t understand. When I first heard El Yezdi, four years ago, it was as if he immediately became an integral part of my mind. I reported his absence to Disraeli last Thursday not just because, after communicating his final message, he fell silent, but because he was quite suddenly and violently torn out of me.”

  Burton put his glass aside and raised his hands. “Stop. Go back to the beginning. Tell me about when he first spoke to you.”

  “It was after my accident.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, Edward. You were hunting elephants in Ceylon. The Singhalese consider them holy. It’s no wonder they set upon you.”

  The minister shrugged. “A misjudgment, I’ll admit. The villagers attacked me with tools, fists, and feet. My gun bearer was strangled to death. I was knocked unconscious. When I regained my wits, I was in a house in Jaffna, being nursed by two young men—Ravindra Johar and Mahakram Singh. They told me they’d stumbled upon the scene quite by chance and had dragged me away from my assailants.”

  He lifted his ale and took a gulp, before continuing, “Over the course of four months, they had doctors attend me. My skull had been cracked and my brain injured. I was almost completely paralysed. I couldn’t speak.” Edward lifted a hand and traced the scar on his forehead with a forefinger. “Then I heard him one night, inside my head, as clear as a bell. He said: This time, you were saved. You’ll recover. Pay the boys to take you to England. Have them deliver you to Penfold Sanatorium. After a few days, they’ll disappear. Let them. Don’t look for them.”

  “‘This time’?”

  Edward nodded, his chins wobbling. “Yes. I have no idea what he meant by that.”

  “And his voice—what was it like?”

  “It was my voice. When Abdu El Yezdi speaks, it isn’t like someone addressing you. It’s more like having your own thoughts guided.”

  “Similar to mesmerism?”

  “Yes, very much so. But I wasn’t under the influence of animal magnetism. There was no one else present.”

  Burton mused, “Mental domination over distance?”

  Edward made a noise of disagreement. “Your own prejudice prompts you to search for an explanation that doesn’t involve the Afterlife. I’m sorry, Dick, but El Yezdi later stated quite categorically that he is not of this world, and I, having communicated so closely with him these past four years, am convinced beyond all doubt that he’s a spirit.”

  Burton drew a cheroot from his pocket, contemplated it, then put it between his lips and fished for his box of lucifers.

  Edward clicked his tongue impatiently and said, “Must you foul the atmosphere?”

  Ignoring him, Burton lit the Manila and blew smoke into the air.

  Edward sighed his exasperation, and went on, “When I was fit enough for the voyage, Ravindra and Mahakram, at my expense, accompanied me here to London. They delivered me to the sanatorium, where, as you know, Sadhvi Raghavendra nursed me back to health. As El Yezdi had warned, the boys both vanished. I never saw them again. I was unable even to thank them.”

  Burton retrieved his glass, gazed into the foam of his beer, and summoned the painful recollection of Edward’s return to England. He’d also been in hospital at the time, and had suddenly been called to the sanatorium. With his own head swathed in bandages, he’d been escorted to a room where he’d found his brother in exactly the same state. However, where Burton’s injury had deprived him of a couple of molars, left him temporarily speechless, and gouged a hideous scar across his left cheek, Edward’s had threatened permanent brain damage. The two Indian lads—both gone by the time Burton arrived—had kept his brother alive, but it was Sadhvi who nursed him back to health. Having witnessed the miracles she’d worked with him, Burton immediately thought of her three years later, when he was planning his Nile expedition. He’d sought her out and, in a very unconventional move, asked her to join his team. He was surprised and delighted when she’d said yes.

  “During the early days of my recovery,” Edward said, “I truly thought myself mad.”

  “As did I,” Burton replied. “You didn’t say a word for three months.”

  “I couldn’t. It was as if two personalities existed within me. I didn’t know which was real. It took a long time to untangle them. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to were it not for the Countess Sabina. She came to visit me and explained that Abdu El Yezdi had been communicating with her since 1840. She informed me that I was to take over her role. After giving an account of what it would involve, she then, to my great astonishment, ushered in Disraeli himself, who, at her recommendation, immediately appointed me his new minister of mediumistic affairs.”

  Sir Richard Francis Burton drained his glass, put it down, stood, and started to pace the room, carelessly kicking books aside to clear a path. He puffed furiously on his cigar. His brother watched, then signalled to Grumbles to open a window.

  “Blast it!” Burton exploded. “Is it really true, Edward? Has this voice in your head been directing government policy for so long?”

  “Yes, it has. Twenty years ago, Disraeli was more than willing to listen to El Yezdi. The spirit had, after all, helped him to defeat Palmerston by convincing Monckton Milnes to offer support. Disraeli’s subsequent creation, at the spirit’s behest, of the Department of Guided Science bore such startling fruit that it was almost impossible to doubt the spirit’s benevolence. Then Ireland happened, and it made Abdu El Yezdi the government’s most influential advisor.”

  “Ireland?”

  “In ’forty-four, a man named Francis Galton presented to Isambard Kingdom Brunel a new science, which he called Eugenics. At its most basic, it concerns the breeding out of inherent weaknesses in plants, animals, and even in humans, and the propagation of their strengths. Galton proposed to test his theories by planting a crop of what he termed Super Solanum tuberosum—”

  “Super potatoes?” Burton interrupted, incredulously.

  “In essence, yes. He wanted to plant them in Ireland, the idea being that the plants would spread their hardiness to other crops while eliminating the fragilities that had plagued the Irish strains. Brunel put the plan before Disraeli, but Abdu El Yezdi immediately warned, via the countess, that the whole undertaking would be disastrous. He recommended that Eugenics in its entirety be made illegal. Disraeli, however, met Galton in person and allowed himself to be convinced to go ahead with the plan. It was catastrophic. The potatoes caused the entire crop, across the whole of Ireland, to fail. Widespread famine followed. Galton suffered a serious nervous breakdown and has been incarcerated in Bedlam ever since. Eugenics was made illegal, and from that point on Disraeli never again disregarded El Yezdi’s advice.”

  Burton flicked his cigar stub into the fireplace and blew smoke from his nostrils.

  “What am I to make of all this? The more I learn, the more . . . wrong everything feels. Everything, Edward! I’m expected to track down a man who doesn’t exist!”

  “But who once did,” Edward noted.

  The explorer stopped his pacing and regarded his brother. “When? Where? Who was he? What did he do? When and how did he die?”

  The minister of mediumistic affairs shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Burton snapped. “You’ve had him rattling about inside your bloody skull for four years and you’ve discovered nothing about him?”

  “As I told you, it isn’t a discussion. I feel his presence, my thoughts are manipulated into words, and I pass those words on to Disraeli. That’s it.”

  “And his final words, aside from the warning about Brunel?”

  “He gave assurance that the new unity of Italy is secure. He urged that our government establish bases in Lagos to stop the slave trade there. And—” Edward
Burton examined his glass, which was now empty, and held it out to Grumbles for a refill. “And that was it.” He looked at his fingernails and chewed his bottom lip. He glanced up at his brother. “There is something else, something he said a few months ago that might have some relevance to your investigation.”

  “It being?”

  “The crucial years are upon us. Soon the variations will begin to overlap.”

  “What does that signify?”

  The minister shrugged.

  Burton threw up his hands. “Riddles, obscurities, and voices in my brother’s head!”

  Edward answered, “You’ve already asked a very pertinent question—who was Abdu El Yezdi when he lived? The king selected you for this task because you have extraordinary powers of observation. I’ve never met another man who can learn so much about something merely by looking at it. Perhaps if you knew something of El Yezdi’s appearance, you could begin to trace his origins.”

  Burton groaned. “Please don’t suggest that I should have a table-tapper summon him out of ectoplasm.”

  “I wasn’t going to. You met Rossetti today?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has a friend who claims to have seen Abdu El Yezdi.”

  “In a vision?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “But you insist that he’s dead!”

  “The man I refer to thinks not, but he has a reputation for eccentricity, so it may be nothing but waffle. Nevertheless, it’s worth checking, don’t you think?”

  “Who is he?”

  Edward took his refilled glass from the clockwork butler.

  “A young poet named Algernon Charles Swinburne.”

  “The four copper rods of Battersea Power Station extend two and a half miles into the crust of the Earth. They conduct geothermal heat into the station, where it is converted into electrical energy. With this, we thought we’d be able to illuminate London from North to South, West to East. As it happens, the electricity generated is barely enough to light even the station. The project has been a grand, extravagant, ridiculous failure. I must confess, though; I like the building. It makes a good, secure headquarters.”

  —FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ISAMBARD KINGDOM BRUNEL.

  After spending the remainder of the afternoon strolling in Hyde Park with Isabel, Burton returned home and, shortly before his evening meal, sent a letter by messenger to Rossetti. By the time he’d fished eating—Mrs. Angell insisted on serving ridiculously large portions because he was “infected with Africa and needed fattening up”—a reply had come. Algernon Swinburne was currently touring the continent and wouldn’t be back until the middle of next month. Rossetti had, however, swung an invitation to Wallington Hall for Burton. This grand old manor, located in Northumberland and owned by Sir Walter Trevelyan, was a centre of artistic and intellectual endeavour due to Lady Pauline Trevelyan’s fondness for creative types, whom she collected around herself and, in many cases, generously sponsored. One of her week-long gatherings was set to begin on the 24th of October, and, according to Rossetti, Burton was most welcome to attend.

  Swinburne would also be there.

  The explorer sent a whispered thank you to Rossetti via the Irish ragamuffin and wrote a letter to Lady Trevelyan.

  Later, he wrapped himself in his jubbah, lolled in his armchair, and contemplated the events of the day.

  The British Empire was built on foundations laid by a ghost. His friend Monckton Milnes had secretly played a major role in history; and his own brother, whose belief in the Afterlife Burton had considered an aberration caused by brain damage—and whose position as the minister of mediumistic affairs he’d regarded as a joke—was sitting slap bang in the middle of it all.

  He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander, hoping that, from its depths, some conception would arise to inject sense into what felt like a demented fantasy.

  He waited for insight.

  He fell asleep.

  When he awoke at six on Tuesday morning, he was still in the armchair and his muscles were stiff and sore. He grumbled when Mrs. Angell served him a too-big breakfast but ate it all and drank the whole pot of coffee before dressing and leaving the house in a hurry.

  He met Sadhvi Raghavendra and Captain Lawless at William Stroyan’s funeral where they all spoke movingly about their friend to the congregation. Burton struggled with his emotions as the coffin was lowered into the ground. He couldn’t imagine anything more horrifying than being buried.

  Afterwards, they took a cab to the RGS.

  The next two days were going to be filled with geographical matters, starting with this morning’s public presentation. They would, Burton hoped, be free of surprises. He’d accepted the king’s commission but, right now, didn’t want to think about it.

  Isabel and Blanche took a break from their socialising to join the audience. Burton met them at the door and escorted them to seats at the front of the establishment’s auditorium. He then retired to a back room with Raghavendra and Lawless where they reviewed their notes.

  By ten o’clock, when they took to the stage, the place was packed with journalists.

  Sir Roderick Murchison made a brief speech before Burton moved to the podium and gave a long, detailed, and entertaining account of the expedition, the highlight of which was his description of the moment when he, Raghavendra, Stroyan, and Herne had climbed a hill and looked down on the waterfalls from which the Nile sprang. This was greeted by such wild cheering that it was heard in Scotland Yard and echoed all the way down Whitehall.

  When Burton finished, Lawless took centre stage and gave a well-received account of his flight over the eastern shore of the great lake. He was followed by Sister Raghavendra, who told of her experiences and was rewarded with a standing ovation and cries of, “Hurrah for the Lady of the Nile!”

  Burton came forward to take questions. Inevitably, the journalists, ever hungry for sensation, were more interested in the murder of Stroyan than in the geography of Africa. Having learned from them that Oliphant was at present locked up in Bedlam, Burton said it was the best place for him, and concurred with the prevalent theory that Lord Elgin’s private secretary had been driven mad by his opium addiction. Stroyan’s death was, unfortunately, needless and meaningless.

  The presentation finished at three o’clock, but the explorer spent the rest of the day with his fellow geographers going over maps and measurements, notes and specimens, and didn’t leave the building until nightfall, by which time he was thoroughly exhausted and ready for bed.

  There had been one significant moment.

  Halfway through his speech, Burton had spotted in the audience the man who called himself Macallister Fogg. A minute later, when he looked again, that individual was gone.

  Wednesday was also spent at the Society, this time presenting much more technical material to the senior committee—Murchison, Arthur Findley, Sir James Alexander, Colonel William Sykes, and Clement Markham. They spent considerable time matching Burton’s maps to those made by David Livingstone of the topography to the west of the Lake Region. Central Africa was beginning to make sense. Light was finally shining onto the Dark Continent.

  Two busy days, during which Burton threw himself wholeheartedly into his role as the returning hero; the man who solved the riddle of the Nile; the explorer who’d braved dangerous lands and triumphed. He relished it because he knew it was the end. No more risking his life. No further need to prove himself. One preposterous hurdle remained, then Damascus.

  He rose on Thursday morning with his geographical duties behind him and a plan of action in place. Foregoing breakfast—much to his housekeeper’s dismay—he left the house and plunged into the day’s fog, which, though not terribly thick, more resembled soot-speckled smoke and was corrosive to the throat and eyes.

  The little urchin was on the opposite side of the road with newspapers draped over his arm and piled at his feet. He was yelling, “Death of mediums! Read all about it! Twelve mediums die in a single day! Cause unknow
n!”

  Burton crossed and purchased a Daily Bugle. “What’s happened?”

  “A great mystery, so it is, sir. Fortune tellers a-droppin’ dead, an’ there be no explanation for it at all.”

  The explorer muttered, “Odd!” He pushed the paper under his arm, bade the lad farewell, and walked on, swinging his cane.

  At the corner of Montagu Place, a vendor of hot chestnuts hailed him. “Mornin’, Cap’n! Glad to see you out o’ the jungle!”

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Grub,” Burton called. “How’s business?”

  “Can’t complain, an’ if I did, it wouldn’t make half a penny’s worth o’ difference! How you copin’ with the ’orrible pong, sir?”

  “Pong?”

  Grub pointed downward. “Of all that muck what’s swillin’ below!”

  Burton remembered that, beneath his feet, sewage was rising in the new tunnels, its flow constricted by sluice gates. Incredibly, after just one week, his nose had already adjusted.

  “I appear to have adapted to it, Mr. Grub.”

  He continued into Gloucester Place, waved for a cab, and as its burly driver came into view, exclaimed, “You again!”

  The hansom crunched to a standstill beside him and Montague Penniforth pushed goggles up from his eyes onto his forehead, looked down, removed a pipe from his mouth, and said, “Hallo hallo! Fancy that! It’s Cap’n Burton ’imself, as I live an’ bloomin’ well breathe!”

  “Are you following me, Mr. Penniforth?”

  “Not at all, guv’nor, it’s blessed chance, that’s what it is; another blinkin’ coincidence. Hop in. Where you hoff to?”

  “The British Museum.”

  As he climbed into the cabin, Burton cast a searching and suspicious glance at the driver. Penniforth, though sitting, was plainly very tall and so solid he might have been carved from granite. Burton had once been described as having the physique of a bull, but even if he’d been in full health—which he certainly wasn’t—he doubted he’d last long in a confrontation with this man.